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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25329835">The Deafening Sound of Silence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranowa/pseuds/Ranowa'>Ranowa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Caretaker John Watson, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, John Watson is a Good Doctor, M/M, Mute Sherlock, Muteness, Mycroft's Meddling, Non-Linear Narrative, Paternal Greg Lestrade, Protective John Watson, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock's Violin, Sign Language, Spanish Translation Available, Therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:34:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>76,746</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25329835</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranowa/pseuds/Ranowa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>529</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. VI: The Road to Normal is Paved with Good Intentions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">

        <li>
          Translation into Español available: 
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26500243">El ensordecedor ruido del silencio</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221B/pseuds/lockedin221B">lockedin221B</a>
        </li>


    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(Thank you very, very, very much for the translation, randomfandoms7!!!)</p><p>So, uh... I know I said this would "take a couple weeks". And it's not even been one week. But I have now written over half of it/35k words in that not even one week, and the rest is fully outlined and on the same roll. This fic has just absolutely taken off more than I was even ready for it. So. Here I am! </p><p>The original inspiration for this fic was realizing that so many of my fics are colored by my irritation at season 3/4 John, and the huge amount of shit he pulled that the series never once bothered to address... but some of my absolute favorite fics to read are Good!John. Best!John.  I decided I wanted some of that, started casting about for an idea that would let me have it- and hit this. The outline then practically wrote itself. </p><p>That's not to say John doesn't fuck up some here, he does, because he's not perfect, and neither is Sherlock- but at its heart, this is BAMF Caretaker Protective John, and Utter Mess Sherlock. Have fun- because I know I certainly did while writing it :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John wakes up seven minutes before his Saturday morning alarm, buried securely under the blankets and with Sherlock's idle hand in his hair.</p><p>He sighs, burrowing deeper under the sheets for a moment. Just one soft, warm, addictive moment. The warmth is intoxicating, and the feeling is borderline criminal, when he has to slip his arm out just enough to palm his mobile and switch off the coming alarm. He stays curled up there in a warm, lax ball, just breathing in the sleepy light of early morning, slowly flexing each of his fingers to feel the stretch and ache in his shoulder.</p><p>Then, John allows himself one single jaw-cracking yawn, and rolls over to face the day.</p><p>"Good morning," he yawns again, turning his face up against Sherlock's hand. "Sleep okay?"</p><p>Sherlock is folded up next to him, pen stuck in his mouth and journal in his lap. He is wide awake, as per usual, probably having not slept any more than two or three hours, but his eyes are bright and he looks as well-rested as a man in bed late Saturday morning should look.</p><p>Sherlock ignores the question. As he is wont to do. John doesn't ask again.</p><p>There is an ink stain on his face, one splotch of wet blue just underneath his high, glorious cheekbone, and John focuses his sleepy attentions on it. "I should probably tell you to stop bringing leaky pens to bed," he teases, rubbing his face clean. "Or at least to stop chewing on them."</p><p>Sherlock rolls his brilliant, sea-green eyes. And he fights it, but there's a smile there, now. There's just the faintest twitch of a smile, and his answer is to suck on the pen even harder, like a belligerent child sticking out their tongue.</p><p>He's wearing faded pajamas, his hair is the result of corkscrew curls being smushed against a pillow all night long, mismatched and twisted with his chin rough with a ragged hint of stubble, and there's still a faded spot of blue right there on his face. He is criminally gorgeous, and cliché though it is, fits the joke <em>exactly </em>of a bastard that rolls out of bed ready to walk onto a magazine cover.</p><p>"I'm going to take a shower," he yawns, pressing his face to the hollow of Sherlock's neck. There's a scar there, the curved tail end of something that Sherlock does not have words for. It's been long enough that it does not hurt. Sherlock does not want to be handled as fragile glass with kid gloves, so he buries his face against his neck and kisses the end of the scar, and he <em>loves him. </em>"Breakfast?"</p><p>Sherlock flicks the pen at him, still held in his mouth. He looks perfectly at home and absolutely content.</p><p>John squirms out of bed, fumbling for his dressing gown from the floor and his phone from the bedside table. The weight in his chest has become so familiar to him now, he hardly even recognises the pressure as it builds behind his sternum.</p><hr/><p>They have established something that tries at being a regimented morning routine. As close to a routine as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson can get.</p><p>Sherlock eats breakfast, now. Ever since the catastrophic meeting with Mycroft, he tries to at least consume the minimum number of recommend calories per day. It still doesn't work out to be enough. Not for a man of his ridiculous height, and not for a man that sprints miles and breathes fist fights for a living and scales walls like a cat.</p><p>But he eats. He tries. He eats at least twice a day. Rarely a full meal, and certainly never a balanced one, but he tries, damn it, and that's enough for John to be proud of him. Whether the reason for the change is a healthy one or not.</p><p>Sherlock eats now. In-between noting down his observations for the different overnight solutions in the beakers before him, he absently nibbles on bits of toast, and in-between flipping pages of his notebook he sips at half a glass of vitamin-rich orange juice. It's toast. It's toast with jam and orange juice. It's not enough. It's something.</p><p>The kitchen is silent, save for the sound of Sherlock's chewing, Sherlock's pen scratching, and John's silverware.</p><p>"Experiment went well?" John asks, giving the nearest beaker a chime with his fork. The solution is sky blue and translucent, and John has a sneaking suspicion that this experiment was a very bored Sherlock determining if he could make an array of rainbow liquids using only household materials that don't include food colouring. "Looks like it was good, at least. You have my full support for anything that doesn't involve mould."</p><p>Sherlock's head bounces in an absentminded nod. It might be a response to John. It might, just as easily, be nothing of the sort, Sherlock having completely tuned him out minutes ago.</p><p>John swallows, and reverts his eyes, instead, down to the stubbornly black screen of Sherlock's phone. He is thirty-four years old, has just worked a week of alternating single and double shifts, it is not even nine AM on a Saturday morning, and he wants nothing more in the world than for Sherlock's phone to light up to give him something to do.</p><p><em>Please text, </em>he thinks lamely. <em>Please. Someone text. Anyone. </em></p><p>The weekends without a case are the worst.</p><p>"Anything on?" he asks, when he just can't bear it anymore. "Maybe-- a case, or--"</p><p>Sherlock shoots him an exasperated look, eviscerating him inside and out with nothing more than the force of his brilliant eyes. His expression is absolutely and totally <em>Sherlock, </em>the familiar condescension, the impatience, god, he can almost hear it, <em>don't be an idiot, John--</em></p><p>It loosens the weight in his chest, and it is the warmest and lightest he's felt all week.</p><p>Sherlock's mobile buzzes to life, the screen going bright in an instant glow, and <em>oh, </em>thank <em>god.</em></p><p>Sherlock takes only a moment to glance through it before his face lights up like it's bloody Christmas. He claps his hands, all but upending his experiment in his haste to stand, and he's off back to get dressed like a rocket with his eyes bright and his smile like the sun.</p><p>John doesn't need an explanation to be on his feet himself. The dishes are all piled quickly up in the sink and he's only just starting to toe his shoes on when Sherlock bounds back through the flat, Belstaff swishing and his face still glowing as a little boy with a puppy. He claps his hands again, all but bouncing up and down and vibrating from head to toe, and-- <em>god, </em>he is beautiful. He's a live wire that sparks and snaps and lights up an entire room, and it's a small miracle that he doesn't just off and bolt before John's finished tying his shoes.</p><p>"All right, all <em>right!" </em>he laughs, ducking under the hand that tries to swat his arm. "Jesus, I'm coming! What is this one, a ten? Tell Lestrade to warn a guy next time!"</p><p>Sherlock swirls out the door in a dramatic swirl of his coat. His phone has already been pushed into John's hand, so that one of them can give the cabbie the address.</p><hr/><p>The case is, indeed, incredible. The sort of case that is enough to get Lestrade to be called in on the weekends is also exactly the sort of case that Sherlock loves. It's probably a bit not good, that the crime rate in London is the biggest part of what gets John through the day, but he's a long ways past caring.</p><p>It's a high-profile art theft, a Picasso vanished from a rich actor's palace of a home, though by the way Sherlock sniffs around the ornate room, there's more to this crime than a missing painting. The bright red, furry sofa probably costs more than John makes in a year-- though so does the white, furry carpet, and the shiny armchair, and the diamond chandelier-- and he pointedly chooses it as where he's going to settle down on. It's the most comfortable, fitting, and ridiculous place in the room to kick back his feet and watch.</p><p>Sherlock swirls around the crime scene as effervescent as ever, his coat billowing after every step and his curls bouncing in a boyish charm. He looks wide-awake and so excited on a Saturday morning it should, quite frankly, be criminal. It will forever be the oddest parallel for John to experience, because-- because <em>John </em>is tired, <em>John </em>is worn down, <em>John </em>is losing his grip, but Sherlock--</p><p>Sherlock just <em>is. </em>Sherlock fills up the space of the room as naturally as he always has, a spectacle that is larger than life. He bounces through the scene, his fingers fluttering to trace the gold trim of the walls, flipping out his pocket magnifier, prodding oh so gently at the remaining painting on the wall, and god, it's incredible. <em>Sherlock </em>is incredible. He does this like he always has and it's as natural to him as breathing.</p><p>It's comfortable.</p><p>And John doesn't know whether or not that scares him.</p><p>John's phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn't want to take his eyes off Sherlock, not even for a second, so it's not until the detective suddenly spins on him that he realises what he's missed.</p><p>"Sorry, sorry--" Sherlock's nostrils flare, impatience blazing under the surface, and John can barely scramble his phone out fast enough. "Hang on, will you... Greg? He wants to know about the security system. Were any alarms tripped?"</p><p>"Oh. No-- no, they weren't, actually." Greg flips through his own notes, his brow furrowed. Sherlock all but vibrates with impatience, shifting back and forth in building frustration. "Nothing at all until the maid came in through here this morning, and realised the painting was missing."</p><p>Sherlock spins about on light feet, pacing back and forth, his eyes bouncing all over the ostentatious room. He's buzzing with excitement now, an uncontainable bundle of nerves that starts to text John again, once, twice, but his mind is going too fast and after only a few halting clicks he just gives it up.</p><p>He flits across the room to Donovan instead, all but dragging her with him without bothering to stop to ask. She stumbles in heels, a little startled yelp as she struggles for balance, but Sherlock's hands are already flying and all there is for her to do is keep up.</p><p>"Why do you say that? No, Holmes, we can not just <em>arrest him, </em>not without evidence. Not--"</p><p>Sherlock hands flutter even faster, all but overflowing with excitement. He's signing so fast John barely catches more than one or two words, and none of them build up enough to make a coherent picture.</p><p>"No," Donovan stresses again, "Your <em>deductions </em>aren't evidence, they're barely more than suppositions-- Holmes!"</p><p>Lestrade joins John on the couch, a few exchanges into the conversation. They share a grim smile, but John knows what's underneath shows on his face, and the inspector's encouraging grin fades as soon as it had come.</p><p>"Never thought I'd see them working together like this, I'll tell you that much." He hesitates, his voice kept carefully low. John doesn't know why he bothers. Sherlock might as well have deleted their presence in the room entirely. "...how's he doing, then?"</p><p>The question is determinedly casual. For someone not in the know, Lestrade is just asking after how a colleague's week has gone.</p><p>John sighs, staring down at his hands. Sometimes, it's a struggle to find the words himself. "It's day by day," he settles on, watching Sherlock flit about just out of the corner of his eye. "Some being better than others."</p><p>"Yeah," Lestrade murmurs. His gaze lingers on where the consulting detective is still ranting, his motions aggressive and wild in his back and forth with Donovan. "It's been five months now, yeah?"</p><p>"Six."</p><p>Lestrade winces, a pale grimace that looks just about as bad as John feels. He doesn't say anything else, just looks across the ridiculous room to Sherlock again, and John follows his gaze to look himself.</p><p>Sherlock looks as home as he ever has. If John hadn't known any better, if he were just passing through, then he would've assumed that the beanpole in the coat was a deaf, especially stylish constable. And that's-- well, he feels <em>awful </em>hating it, because he wants Sherlock to be comfortable, doesn't he? He certainly doesn't want the opposite. He wants Sherlock to be happy. And by all appearances, that is what he is. He bounces around a crime scene, deducing as easily as ever, and John is the only one to have a problem with it.</p><p>But John looks at Sherlock now-- how content he is.</p><p>And he is reminded of an ex-army doctor, limping into a shitty bedsit and therapist's office, smiling to Ella, and telling her <em>yes, my week was great, how was yours?</em></p><p>He just can not truly, in his heart of hearts, believe that Sherlock is happy.</p><p>"We're at an impasse, I think," he admits reluctantly. He probably shouldn't be saying this to Lestrade, and certainly not at a crime scene. But it's not as if Sherlock cares. It's not as if Sherlock is listening in the slightest. It's not as if Sherlock would give a damn, even if he was<em>. </em>"He's not... don't get me wrong. It's nothing<em> bad</em>, or like I'm worried, or-- he's okay, Greg. He's really okay, more than I am some days, to be honest." He stops again, clenching his jaw as his hands flex together in his lap, a nervous energy of his own brewing inside him. "Really, I think that's what worries me."</p><p>Because Sherlock shouldn't be okay with this.</p><p>Sherlock prances about as if his vocal chords were ripped out of his throat. To look at him now, nobody would have any fucking idea that instead he'd sat up in a hospital bed six months ago, with one black eye and a swollen lip and long, new scars on his back, and hasn't said a word since.</p><p>He doesn't want Sherlock to be content like this. It probably makes him the worst boyfriend in the world, and hell, maybe he is. But he looks at Sherlock, with all his cracking mad brilliance and bright eyes and the genius that bleeds from him with every swish of his coat and dramatic sign, and he knows that he is <em>more </em>than this. He wants <em>more </em>from Sherlock. He would love Sherlock even if he was blind and deaf and dumb, but Sherlock is <em>not </em>any of those things. Sherlock is anything and everything in the world that he wants to be, and that's the fucking problem.</p><p>He will never believe that Sherlock wants, or is happy, like this.</p><p>Sherlock struggles. Sherlock has to be dragged through the slightest inconvenience with a toddler's level of kicking and screaming. Sherlock is, to his very core, a fighter.</p><p>John does not believe this is who he wants to be.</p><p>"John," Lestrade says softly, voice kept low to ensure they don't attract Sherlock's attention. He sounds uncomfortable at best, and is clearly unsure of what to say. "If you want me to hold off on the cases for a while--"</p><p>"God, no! No, Greg, the cases are great, seriously, we'd both go mad without them!" John shakes his head, almost dizzy at the thought. Sherlock, without cases? <em>Now? </em>God, he doesn't want to even imagine it.</p><p>Greg laughs, still making sure to be quiet. "Just making sure. Not surprised, though-- I think I'd be more worried if you told me he needed a break, to be honest." He pats his shoulder, in a very manly, mates at the pub sort of way. "Look after him, okay? You two aren't of any use to me if he goes off over the deep end."</p><p>John glances back at him, prepared with a grim smile, but the look of genuine worry on his face is enough to make him soften. Sherlock certainly makes it difficult, what with holding nearly the entire world at the most hostile and rude arms' length imaginable-- but Greg truly does care about him. Sherlock pretends to be nothing more a career-boosting consultant, to him, but Greg does what he can to look after him. Whether Sherlock accepts it or not.</p><p>The detective whirls past them, a hurricane of cotton-cashmere blend as he bounds for the door. John doesn't have any idea what he's missed, but Donovan is jogging along after him, so he can only assume it's something they're all invited on. He hurries to his feet and after the procession, his skin already tingling with the excitement of the case.</p><p>Even if they have nothing else, they still have this.</p><hr/><p>They make a solid amount of progress on the case, and end up being bade to go home only when it's late enough John can tell all of Lestrade's team is begging for it. It's their Saturday, too, after all, and he can't ask them to all give it up for the sake of keeping Sherlock occupied.</p><p>So, a bundle of files under each arm and a pen in Sherlock's teeth, they head home.</p><p>It's a complicated case. Even without Sherlock being unable to vocalise it, he's seen the frustration on his face mounting as he pieced through files at the Yard-- he's as happy as he is stuck, and this is sure to be a case that'll keep him busy for the week to come.</p><p>So John isn't surprised in the slightest when, after paying the cabbie and checking in on Mrs. Hudson, he makes his way upstairs to find Sherlock already in his mind palace.</p><p>He's still bundled up in his coat and scarf and shoes, and the ball he makes in his chair is just too limber and flexible to be fair, from a man in his late twenties that takes better care of his violin than he does himself. His bright eyes are staring blindly straight through John, long fingers bouncing against his knees, that clever mouth twitching.</p><p>John stands there, and begins to systematically and affectionately record every single last thing about this moment, no matter how small. To take every <em>single </em>detail about the ridiculous scene he sees right now, and save it in the closest thing he has to a mind palace of his own.</p><p>Sherlock hadn't used to let John be in the room, when he went into the palace. Sherlock is so incredibly active and expressive, when he takes a trip through his own mind, whatever filters he so religiously employs in the day-to-day stripped away-- in some ways, this Sherlock is more genuine than anything else about him that he will ever see. Whatever files he sifts through in his head, he often waves his hands through them, right for John to see. Whatever revelations he has, they play out in full, beautiful display, right there on his clever face.</p><p>His mouth moves a lot. His lips forming words, throat jumping as he breathes in, spelling out a silent monologue to whoever is there to listen. And when John had first seen that, months ago-- <em>so close</em>, he'd thought, <em>maybe--.</em> There'd been a little ember of hope, catching fire right in his chest. Sherlock <em>still talked</em>, even if only in his head. Sherlock still had things to say and the will to say them, so maybe if he just let him try; maybe if he sat there only as a silent cheerleader to wait and to listen, his mind palace would take him past the finish line--</p><p>That hope hadn't taken very long to be extinguished.</p><p>Whatever words he has to say inside his head, he never repeats them aloud.</p><p>He spends a lot more time in the palace, these days. Whether there's a case or not, whether he has a puzzle that he can't solve or not. John supposes he can't begrudge him that. If he'd had a mind palace, after Afghanistan? A place where his shoulder and his leg didn't hurt, and he was free to do whatever he wanted without having anyone there to watch him fail?</p><p>Well, he'd probably have spent a lot of time there, too.</p><p>John doesn't bother trying to draw him out. Instead, he simply searches through the fridge, throwing together a dinner as quick as what he has the energy for, and he doesn't bother trying to be quiet, either; Sherlock can't hear him. The only time he needs to careful is when he gently makes an approach to where Sherlock still sits in his tight ball, a bowl of biscuits cradled under his right arm.</p><p>Sherlock waves a hand through the air, brushing aside a non-existent fly. Then he does it again, more vehemently than before, and exhales out like an angry, stuck dragon.</p><p>John grins.</p><p>"I love you, you ridiculous git," he mutters, exactly as loud as he dares. He settles the bowl down next to him and gently, carefully, lifts Sherlock's hand up beside it. It's long and limp and strong, his fingers dangling like loose puppet strings, fingertips clean and pale. The nails have almost entirely grown back.</p><p>He tucks Sherlock's hand into the spot, arranging everything so it just falls limply right into the bowl. It only takes a few moments before his fingers realise what they're doing, and curl around a biscuit.</p><p>Maybe Sherlock hears him, maybe he doesn't. Maybe Sherlock's in there because he needs to recall some tiny, insignificant factoid about Picasso, maybe he's in there because there's no longer anywhere else that he can feel safe. He has no idea, and Sherlock is neither willing or able to explain it to him.</p><p>But John can at least give him this.</p><p>The evening passes Sherlock by with John watching the news on low volume and typing up the start of this case. The ones that involve celebrities (other than Sherlock) always do fantastically well, and the ad revenue from the blog is starting to be a bit incredible. They're easier to write up nowadays, too; it makes his stomach hurt a bit to admit it, but if he really has to look for the silver lining, it's that he no longer has to ask Sherlock to walk him through his leaps of logic five plus times once a case is over. They're all written down already, step by step for the Yard to follow, and all John has to do is copy them down.</p><p>So far, he's managed to keep this a secret from his readers. There have been no headlines, proclaiming that the great hat detective has lost his voice; there have been no nosy reporters shoving microphones into his face to try and force him to talk. Mycroft's worked his magic, Lestrade gives his officers their orders, and the nature of the story does the rest. It takes a higher quality reporter than the tabloid trash that tends to stalk Sherlock, to realise that their subject has not spoken in so long that it can only mean something is wrong.</p><p>It's sustainable, what they have. Sherlock no longer limps. He no longer winces when he inhales too deeply, and he is no longer so deeply unsettled when someone touches him unawares that it shows on his tense face. He did all the physical therapy that they asked, though it was a bit like pulling teeth, and now he can bend and straighten his arm again without difficulty. He eats as well as he can. He sleeps as well as he can. He does both, and John has just given up on figuring out how much of what he still can not do is because of trauma, and how much of it is just in how Sherlock's massive brain has always worked and always will. He takes cases, and he still beams with sheer ecstasy at the gift of a nice murder, and he knows the pulse of London's beating heart.</p><p>John looks at him, where he sits in his chair. The very picture of who used to be Sherlock Holmes, sorting his way through books and files and articles that only he can see, his staring eyes glinting with excitement as the pieces of a glorious puzzle click together in a way only he can work.</p><p>This is sustainable, yeah.</p><p>But neither one of them is happy.</p><p>The night gets darker, and finally, there's nothing left to it but to let the day end.</p><p>"Sherlock. <em>Sherlock." </em>He shakes his shoulder gently, knowing only a soft jostling is needed to prod him out of the palace. "Sherlock. It's late."</p><p>It takes a few moments, but finally, the bleary blink comes. Then his eyes sharpen and focus, clear blue locked with his.</p><p>"It's late," he says again, his hand sliding to cup the side of his neck. "Eleven thirty."</p><p>Sherlock blinks again, still filtering through volumes and volumes of information. None of it shows on his face anymore, his features shifted back into a restrained, careful mask, but he nods slowly once, finding his footing.</p><p>It's silent still. The whole flat is so damn <em>silent. </em>It's a suffocating dust, every graceful pad of Sherlock's footsteps grinding in his ears, every breath resoundingly loud because there's <em>nothing else. </em>He hears Sherlock pad off to finally get undressed and everything is so quiet he can hear the rustle of the cloth even from the other bloody room, and John shoves on the taps as he brushes his teeth just for the damn noise.</p><p>He misses Sherlock's voice. It is the lowest, sexiest voice he's ever heard. It's just as much uniquely <em>Sherlock </em>as his wild hair or his dramatic coat or his striking eyes. He misses how it sounds when he laughs, really, genuinely <em>laughs, </em>he misses how it sounds when he's excited and railing through a series of deductions at light speed. He misses how it sounds when Sherlock is bellowing his name from across the bloody flat to demand tea.</p><p>John finishes brushing his teeth, spits, and lets the taps run for five more seconds. Five more glorious, non-suffocating seconds.</p><p>Then, glaring at his own reflection in disgust, he flips them both back to silence.</p><p>"Get it together, Watson," he snaps.</p><p>If the silence of the flat is this bad for him, then it can only be even worse for Sherlock.</p><p>He wipes his eyes, squares his shoulders, and marches back out onto the battlefield.</p><p>He moves past Sherlock on his way back to get undressed himself, the detective finally having shed his multitude of layers and back in something comfortable for the first time all day. Sherlock says nothing, of course, and John is tired enough that he misses the look on his face.</p><p>He can not miss the iron hand that tightens around his arm, and swivels John back to face him more securely than any words could.</p><p>Sherlock stares down at him with eyes that drive the breath from him. Voice or not, Sherlock Holmes' face is one of the most expressive in the world, and his eyes are daring and powerful and pierce straight through him all the way down to his heart.</p><p>Sherlock lets one hand go, and instead raises his fingertips, very deliberately, up to his own mouth. He lifts them away again, almost as if he's blowing him a bizarre sort of kiss, and mouthes the words.</p><p>It's one of the only signs John knows, and can confidently recognise on sight.</p><p>A warm, painful affection unfolds in his stomach, his throat suddenly tightening. Jesus Christ, he's about to cry. No. John breathes in harshly, swallowing as hard as he can, and smiles back at Sherlock with everything that he has in him.</p><p>He loves this man. He loves him so <em>much.</em></p><p>"You're welcome," he says back.</p><p>Sherlock's arms instantly lower to squeeze around him, his head of wild curls burying down into his shoulder. He can't see Sherlock's face anymore, he can't tell what he's thinking or what he feels, but he doesn't have to to know to hug Sherlock back.</p><p><em>I love you, </em>he thinks, curling his fingers into Sherlock's hair. <em>I love you. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on in that great big head of yours. Tell me what's wrong, Sherlock. I love you.</em></p><p>Tonight, Sherlock can't.</p><p>Someday, he will.</p><p>Until then--</p><p>This, John determines, squeezing him even tighter, will be good enough.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>As I've said, much of the fic is already written, so updates should come pretty quickly. I will be back soon! (And I posted this chapter at 3:30 AM while sick, so now I've gone back through and fixed up a lot of typos! Sorry about that ;-;)</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. II: Nobody Gets Too Far Like That</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all so much for all the comments/kudos!!!</p><p>A bit of explanation: like the tags say, this'll be non-linear. The chapter titles will tell you how many months it's been, since Sherlock lost his voice (last chapter was month six, this chapter is month two). Everything is outlined so it will hopefully flow well and make sense, but just wanted to mention that, so you wouldn't be confused why the timeline seemed to jump!</p><p>I also posted the first chapter while sick, and am still sick, so I'll be poking more at typos as I find them. British biscuits for Sherlock this chapter, American crackers for me. Mea culpa ;-;</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock looks every bit like a college student.</p><p>He curls there on the sofa, his legs long and spread akimbo, an octopus that has melted all over the cushions and has no intention of ever moving again. He's a pile of old pajamas and dressing gown topped with the most unsalvageable mess of curls that he has ever seen, and<em> absolutely </em>has the look of someone who has been wide awake for the entire night. There's even the textbook in his lap, the last necessary piece of the all-night cramming puzzle... or it would've been, if John didn't already know that Sherlock's entire existence was the oscillation between all-night cramming and crashing.</p><p>It's even got the cup of tea and bowl of snacks at his feet. Neither has been touched. Neither had been asked for.</p><p>John swallows, gripping his fingers together, and wills himself to stay calm.</p><p>"Productive night, then?" He picks up the stone cold tea with a loud clatter. He leaves the fucking biscuits. "Finally got some studying in, did you? So you think you can maybe give it a rest tonight?"</p><p>Sherlock shoos him off with an absentminded wave of his good hand. He doesn't even come close to looking up from the book.</p><p>"Oh, so I see you learned the sign for <em>go away and make me tea, John. </em>That's great, that's convenient..."</p><p>Sherlock refuses to rise to the bait, and the worried knot in John's stomach grows until it's almost impossible to swallow.</p><p>He's been in that nest on the sofa for three days. He barely eats, and John is pretty sure he's not sleeping. If he huddles up there for any longer, he's going to grow roots.</p><p>John hates that damn book.</p><p>He closes his eyes, shaking his head to himself as he turns his back, rubbing his temples in the kitchen. He hates that book. But doesn't Sherlock hate this, too? He blows it off with arrogant waves of his hand and playing the role of a smug little shit, but this isn't Sherlock. That bundle of blankets on the sofa has never been something Sherlock would willingly do.</p><p>Isn't it obvious how much Sherlock hates this, even if he can't say it? This is not just about him.</p><p>This can't be just about him.</p><p>John pours himself a cup of tea, and this time, doesn't bother to pour a second. If Sherlock gives some indication that he wants one, he'll make it, but every cup he's given that bleary-eyed blanket burrito over the past few days has been left almost entirely untouched. He sits down at the kitchen table instead, his back turned firmly to the rest of the room.</p><p>He takes five minutes, and enjoys his perfect cuppa in silence. He even washes it for good measure, listening to the clink of china and rush of water and, every so often, the turn of a page of a book behind him.</p><p>When everything that the morning demands is taken care of, he gets back up to his feet, and returns to face Sherlock.</p><p>"Sherlock," he begins. "I'm sorry for snapping. It was a late night for both of us."</p><p>Sherlock's mouth flattens, and the look on his face turns from calm boredom to something that edges on hostile.</p><p>John takes another breath, willing himself to be patient. Sherlock hasn't slept in days. Anyone would be cranky. "I'm gonna make breakfast, in a bit. Will you please eat some? You need to eventually, Sherlock. You're going to keel over if you don't take care of yourself."</p><p>Sherlock flips another page, tracing a finger down the page soundlessly as he reads. He is, very transparently, pretending John does not exist.</p><p>Damn it.</p><p>"Sherlock, I'm trying to help you, but--"</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes, his expression turned vicious and mocking. He looks at John like he is a very moronic child, like he is an intolerable idiot and too imbecilic and exasperating to live. And John--</p><p>He's not angry, at Sherlock. How could he be?</p><p>He looks down at Sherlock, and sees him spread out just so because he knows any other way will hurt his back. Both hands are thick clumps of gauze with his fingers stiff and sore, and his left arm rests against his chest in a sling and cast, where it will remain for another two weeks. He sees the shadows under his bloodshot eyes in his ashen face, because Sherlock can be <em>not-normal </em>all he likes, his brain needs sleep just as much as anyone's, and he is very clearly <em>exhausted. </em>He sees the shadows that have been there for days because until Sherlock had relocated to the sofa and decided he was Not Going To Sleep, he'd been having nightmares, horrible, kicking, <em>silent </em>nightmares, and his relocation to the sofa has not even come close to making anything better.</p><p>He sees the prickly, on edge hostility, and all he can think is how hurt Sherlock has to be underneath it, to lash out after nothing more than an offer of morning tea?</p><p>John doesn't want to do anything at all but wrap him up in his arms and tell him it's all going to be okay.</p><p>Sherlock has never in his life wanted to be coddled. Sherlock has never, in all the years that he has known him, responded well to kindness, and gentleness, and care. Not like that.</p><p>So John takes a deep breath, snaps his heels together, and dives right in.</p><p>"Sherlock Holmes, you will put that bloody book away right this moment and listen to me, or so help me I will use it for firewood <em>tonight!" </em>He snatches it free, and at Sherlock's outraged face holds it up higher, daring him to get to his feet to grab it back. "You are going to sit there and eat at least three of those biscuits before you faint onto the damn floor. Then you are going to get up, and let me help you through your physiotherapy, which is what you <em>agreed to, </em>when you were let to come home. Then, you are going to have a lie down with me, and have a bloody nap before you <em>faint </em>onto the damn <em>floor. </em>Do you understand me?"</p><p>Sherlock blinks.</p><p>It's that endearing and bit creepy thing he does, when a very crucial and important wire in his brain somewhere trips and leaves him sputtering on an emergency systems update. He sits there and blinks and just stares at him, a connection gone faulty and a team of little Sherlocks in his brain is hard at work rewiring it. He stares up at John with his brilliant eyes fluttering, for just long enough that John knows he's too sleepy to parse his thoughts.</p><p>He holds his breath, and waits.</p><p>Then the wire connects, and it's like a lightbulb being twisted all the way in. It's small and restrained and almost sweet, for a smart-mouthed genius that had probably been one more comment away from flipping him off, but what he looks up at him with then is a smile. It takes everything John has to not give in right then and there, and sink down on the couch to hug him.</p><p>He smiles back, instead, book tucked under his arm, and turns smartly back to the kitchen. Behind him, he can hear the clink of the bowl as Sherlock at last situates it in his lap, and crunches into the first biscuit.</p><p>He'll make that cup of tea after all.</p><p>Sherlock does cooperate willingly enough, after that. He eats the three biscuits, and accepts the cup of tea with little more than a small, contented sigh. It's a bit of a risk to sit next to him, but John takes it anyway, and after giving him a few moments to get used to it, he risks curling an arm around him.</p><p>Sherlock is a very tactile, responsive person. Or, he was. Before... before. Before, he'd loved to just tangle all over John. Oh, it had taken a little while, to wear down his filters and layers of restraint, but once he'd managed to convince Sherlock that wanting affection was something even superhuman geniuses were allowed-- he <em>loves </em>it. He wraps around John, all gangly limbs; there really seems to be nothing he likes more than monopolising the sofa in a thinking pose to plant himself in John's lap. It's as if he's making up for all the years he's held the world at arms' length, and John is only too happy to oblige him.</p><p>It's not that easy, anymore.</p><p>Sherlock wants to be touched. He only wants to be touched a very exact amount, in very exact ways. Before, he was an over-excited puppy, always preening to be scratched around the ears or pet, and now it's like he's metamorphosed into an overgrown, sulky cat. One that purrs delightedly when touched just the right way, but will snap and bite his hand off if it stays for too long.</p><p>Except Sherlock flinching away is not endearing, and his violent, hostile terror is not cute.</p><p>The line is hard to find, because while Sherlock isn't shy about drawing it, he can't <em>explain </em>it. He can't tell John what goes wrong when something does, if he even would, and he has no way to express <em>I think we should try </em>or <em>this hurts </em>or <em>that makes me feel--.</em> The line changes every day, and with Sherlock unable or unwilling to label it himself, John has almost no way to find it.</p><p>They're learning.</p><p>And right now, Sherlock is content to curl himself up and around his tea, nudged into John's side, and let John stroke his hair.</p><p>Today, John can only hope, is a good day.</p><p>Sherlock finishes the required biscuits and tea without needing minding, and even adds a fourth. John can't help a smile, pressing his nose to the soft nest of angry curls. "I'm guessing you wouldn't be open to me amending our deal, if I went and fixed a proper breakfast?"</p><p>Sherlock harrumphs, his sharp eyes rolling at John. The look on his face answers more acutely than any words ever could, and John grins back, acquiescing. "Yeah, figured. Fine. We'll see later tonight." He leans his head against Sherlock's, kissing the shell of an ear.</p><p>Then he starts to stand up, and finds himself blocked by a bandaged lump of a hand, catching him right in the chest.</p><p>John frowns. "Sherlock? What is it?" Sherlock hasn't tended to be very resistant about physical therapy yet, and the exercises he's supposed to do right now are only tedious, rather than painful. But he very much needs to do them. Forming scar tissue on his hands, his back, his legs-- now is the most crucial time, time that they won't be able to get back if he wastes it by being stubborn. "Sherlock, you can't skip--"</p><p>Sherlock shakes his head, not looking at John. He spreads his hand as much as he can, raw, sore fingertips pressing into his shirt.</p><p>A moment later, they both hear the swing of the door downstairs, and the unmistakeable tread of heavy footsteps on the stairs.</p><p>"You bugger. How'd you know that?"</p><p>Sherlock smirks, a glimmer of light in his eyes for the first time all morning, and sets about resettling himself even more firmly into John's arms.</p><p>Seventeen stairs later, Mycroft slinks into the flat.</p><p>God <em>damn it.</em></p><p>"Dr. Watson," he begins glibly. "Brother mine."</p><p>Sherlock narrows his silvery eyes, once again reminding John of a great panther cat. Even if he could speak, he looks like he'd rather just sit there and glare at Mycroft until he leaves. Mycroft seems quite content to meet his silent glaring right back.</p><p>
  <em>Annnd, here we go...</em>
</p><p>John, unlike the two Holmes siblings, was actually <em>not </em>raised in a barn, and he makes to squirm his arm free-- something about having a cuddle in front of the British government is just not how John wants to start his day. "Mycroft," he forces out, through what he hopes is a polite smile and not the bitter annoyance he actually feels. "You want a cup of tea?"</p><p>"No. Thank you, but I won't be staying long." He raises an eyebrow, observing John's continued efforts to squirm free, and directs to both of them a dry sigh. "Sherlock, I'm afraid your efforts to make me uncomfortable with public displays of affection are only accomplishing the exact opposite. Please, do you think it's possible that we discuss this like grown-ups?"</p><p>Sherlock continues his silent, seething stare-down. He clearly has absolutely no desire to unfold from the sofa, and he's not about to let John so much as an inch away, either.</p><p>John sighs. He figures he can give Sherlock this much, at least, but he's also not exactly keen on just sitting here, waiting to see who will be the first to break this staring contest. He wants to get Sherlock to bed. "Right, then," he announces, clearing his throat. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"</p><p>The politician gives Sherlock another look, even as he slips two files out from under his arm with a faint <em>snick. </em>"An update on the case, of course. The last two individuals responsible appear to have been found."</p><p>Sherlock doesn't react at all, beyond a slow, still hostile blink. He looks as if Mycroft has done nothing more groundbreaking than announce what he'd like for Christmas. He doesn't even look like he <em>cares.</em></p><p>John's stomach goes cold, and his heart is suddenly thundering so loudly in his ears he can barely think.</p><p>"Are they dead?"</p><p>"Naturally."</p><p>"Good," John snaps. There wouldn't have been any long, drawn-out trial anyway, not with Mycroft's influence. He doesn't care. <em>Good. </em>Let them fucking rot.</p><p>Sherlock sits beside him, his eyes narrowed and his face still blank. He looks at Mycroft rather than the files, and whatever is going on in his giant brain, not a hint of it shows on his face.</p><p>Mycroft glances between the two of them again, unreadable in exact the same way his brother is-- the familial relation has never been so unmistakeable. But something about it makes John want to clutch Sherlock to him even tighter. "Not as such," he returns cryptically, whatever the fuck <em>that means, </em>and refocuses on Sherlock. "It remains only a tentative identification, at the present moment. Brother mine, if you would be so kind?"</p><p>John tenses. This isn't the time; surely, Mycroft can see that? What about Sherlock right now looks like he's ready for something like this?</p><p>He opens his mouth, searching for the best words that won't set Sherlock off, while at the same time sending Mycroft away. But it's a tall order, and in the second it takes him to get ready to start, Sherlock has already sat up, and reached for the folders himself.</p><p>It is suffocatingly silent. He nudges opens one folder, then the other, his pale face cold and about as expressive as a stone. He nods.</p><p>The pictures themselves are of two men, both older than John, and both very resolutely dead. He's sure there are any number of deductions to be made about who they are and how they got that way, from the bruises on their faces, the short, military hair, the bloody fold of the sheet. John doesn't care. For a perverse moment, he wonders if Mycroft could get an arm or a foot for Sherlock to experiment on to his heart's content.</p><p>He's seen the pictures of the other four. Dead at the scene of the crime, those pathetic excuses for life removed from existence before he'd gotten the chance to do it himself. Splattered with blood that wasn't their own, facedown on the floor of a grimy warehouse next to slick knives, and dripping pliers, and snapped handcuffs.</p><p>They should've suffered much more.</p><p>Sherlock suddenly gestures something. Or he tries to, through one arm being held to his chest and both his hands stiff and constrained, and the signs are slow and hesitant even if the lack of confidence does not show on his face. His mouth is moving through the words, but whatever they are, they are kept completely silent.</p><p>Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "You ought to be learning American, Sherlock. It's much more pragmatic."</p><p>Sherlock huffs, looking outright scandalised. He repeats the motions even more aggressively than before, aggressive enough that it has to hurt, and Mycroft lets out a long-suffering sigh. "It was serendipitous, believe it or not. They were killed in a car crash on their way to what looks to be a small village on the coast, up north-- mostly retirees. My office repossessed the files when their descriptions were entered into the system."</p><p>Sherlock sits back and interlocks his fingers, still entirely unreadable. He looks unbothered by it all, as if Mycroft is discussing any other boring case that he wants nothing to do with.</p><p>John really seems to be the only one who cares.</p><p>He swallows hard, glaring down at the two files. He wishes Mycroft would close them. "So it's finished, then? They're all dead. The case is over."</p><p>Once again, Mycroft glances at him in that very Holmesian way, the way that makes it clear he thinks John is very, very stupid. "There are two dead bodies in a morgue, four others that my office is handling, and no answers between them, because my brother refuses to provide them. This case is not <em>over, </em>John. Not until I have some measure of explanation to write down."</p><p>His stomach turns over again. What was Mycroft after, here? Answers? Good for him; John wants answers, too. They all desperately want answers. But Sherlock is the only one who can provide them, and Sherlock is clearly unable to do so.</p><p>And Mycroft's pointed comments about the matter are not <em>helping.</em></p><p>Next to him, Sherlock, still, does not react at all. He sits there, his fingers curled tightly and his sharp eyes narrowed, staring down at the files. He refuses to react in any way whatsoever.</p><p>It's downright unsettling.</p><p>The silence drags on, with still no motion from Sherlock. With another pointed look, Mycroft clears his throat, flipping pages in one of the files to turn to a clean sheet of paper, a pen now clipped to the edge of the file. "Once again. Brother mine, if you would be so kind..."</p><p>It takes a moment, for what Mycroft is truly asking of his brother to register. Once it does, John can hardly believe his ears.</p><p>Sod getting reamed out by Sherlock later. <em>"Mycroft," </em>he hisses, shoving the paper back. "He can't help you. What were you thinking? You know he can't! Go solve it yourself, for Christ's sake, can't you save one case without his help?!"</p><p>"If he can sign, he can write."</p><p>"That's not-- he's... it's not that simple, Mycroft! It's his decision to make! And not--" John can barely find the words, caught between his own anger and his own hurt and the impossibility at discussing this in front of Sherlock. "You're asking him about <em>this, </em>Mycroft? That's not fair and you know it. He needs more time. You--"</p><p>The bundle of blankets next to him suddenly and violently shifts. Sherlock wrenches away, the look on his face transformed from placid to livid. His eyes are wide and ablaze, burned alive with the sudden fury of it, and he yanks himself away from the brush of John's shoulder to pick up the pen.</p><p>John's presumption appears to have insulted him far worse than Mycroft's request ever could've.</p><p>Because he's <em>writing.</em></p><p>Sherlock has not written, since-- since. It had made being discharged from hospital an ordeal, because when he had been unable to vocally answer his attending's questions, they had tried to get him to write the answers, instead. He hadn't been able to do it.</p><p>Because there's nothing physically <em>wrong </em>with him. It's a mental block, that stops him from not just speaking, but <em>communicating-- </em>whatever it is that stops him from speaking what he wants, it's stopped him from writing it, too.</p><p>Today is the first day Sherlock has actually communicated in anything beyond a nod, or a shake of his head, or a heavy sigh, or a roll of his eyes. Those signs to Mycroft-- John hadn't realised it at the time, but those few signs were the first words he's said. And what he writes now are the first words that he's written.</p><p>His throat tightens.</p><p>Sherlock-- writes a line. He scrawls a bullet point down, long, sloppy letters in a shaking hand. He moves down, and starts a second. God, he's <em>writing. </em></p><p>John holds his breath. <em>Come on, Sherlock. </em>He doesn't dare move, can't dare to do anything at all beyond watch him with bated breath and wait. He's doing it. He's writing. He can't speak but he can write. Damn it, Mycroft was right, Mycroft was <em>right, </em>he's doing it!</p><p>He writes a third line, and he's not slowing down. A wary joy burns in his chest and he grins, not daring to interrupt, but on the inside-- he's <em>overjoyed</em>. Of course he's not slowing down. Sherlock must have a thousand deductions built up behind the dam, he must know everything about those two men from a glance at the files alone. He must have everything Mycroft could possibly want to know, just bouncing around in his brilliant head, and now after six weeks it's finally coming out.</p><p>For the first time, a warm seed of hope takes root in John's stomach.</p><p>Another line still. And then another bullet point after that. And then--</p><p>Then the breakthrough passes.</p><p>Because Sherlock is slowing down.</p><p>It takes a moment for John to see it, because Sherlock's still hunched over and scrawling away and refusing to look at either one of them. He sees Sherlock start on another line, then stop, hitching in a ragged breath that if John hadn't known any better would've been little more than a long inhale. He does it again, his shoulders hunched aggressively. The pen wavers in his grip, spilling a long line of blue torn across the page.</p><p>He still can't see Sherlock's face. So he's not at all ready for it, when he smacks himself across the face, and tries again.</p><p>The little seed of hope turns to poison instead.</p><p>"...Sherlock," he murmurs, his voice thick. He's takenaback and concerned all at once, but mostly, it's concern. <em>Damn it. I knew it was too soon for this. </em>Never mind that Mycroft's watching. He tentatively reaches a hand out, just barely touching the small of his back. "Sherlock, it's--"</p><p>He smacks himself again, panting as if he's run miles, as if he's still running. His face contorts and suddenly he looks absolutely furious. Oh, god.</p><p>"Sherlock--"</p><p>The man whirls to his feet, a gasping hurricane of frustration and upset. John reaches for him again but only catches a vanishing fistful of dressing gown as Sherlock whips away. He shoves the files away in a cascading cacophony of paper and even throws the pen for good measure, and he just storms out of reach in endless, suffocating silence.</p><p>One step forward, and three steps backward.</p><p>John glares at Mycroft, his heart thudding and close to breaking in his chest. On one hand, Mycroft has only done good today-- Mycroft has brought news that all of the people who've done this to Sherlock are dead, and Sherlock <em>wrote. </em>Sherlock <em>signed. </em>Sherlock just got closer to finding his voice again today than John has managed to coax out of him for <em>weeks</em>, and John is so overjoyed and relived and grateful he could burst. But on the other, Mycroft is also the reason that Sherlock is panting in the corner as he shakes and whines in his throat and tears his hair out, and that means it's time for him to go.</p><p>The politician is already standing, with an almost insufferably indifferent air. He does not need John to shepherd him out the door, because he is already making for it, the files cleaned back up and tucked away to his chest. But he lingers when he reaches the door, staring right at John with piercing, pale eyes-- and just like Sherlock, he does not need to speak, for what he wants to be known.</p><p>His first instinct is to throw Mycroft down the bloody stairs.</p><p>Sherlock is still panting, off in the corner, making those awful, tiny <em>sounds.</em> He'd tried as hard as he could and pushed himself too far and John wants nothing more than to stay up here and hold him and shush him down and make him another cup of tea. And to throw Mycroft down the stairs.</p><p>But Sherlock is still panting, in that <em>bloody corner, </em>and what's John supposed to do? He's tense as a board and shaking, and he still can't speak if he doesn't want something or there's something that he needs, and he knows there's no way Sherlock is ready for what John wants to do. As much as John hates it, what Sherlock needs more than anything else right now is almost assuredly a moment alone.</p><p>He grits his teeth, and sweeps downstairs after the worst and best big brother the world has to offer.</p><p>"Well," Mycroft announces, with all the sly smoothness of a politician. "That went well."</p><p>If he's being sarcastic, it doesn't show. Today probably has turned out miles better than he had expected.</p><p>Sour anger surges in his gut, and he suddenly regrets coming down here with Mycroft after all.</p><p>"How has my dear brother been doing, then?" he asks, buttoning up his jacket. "Aside from today."</p><p>John glares back at him, his teeth set on edge. How the hell does Mycroft think he is, considering's he upstairs having a <em>panic attack? </em>And John, instead of being with him, is stuck down here talking to <em>him?</em></p><p>"He's been better," he snaps. It's gruff and his voice is sore. His chest throbs, and he's torn between throwing Mycroft out on the street, and knowing the last thing Sherlock wants right now is a witness to his struggles. "I've been wanting him to talk to a therapist. <em>Somebody, </em>at least<em>. </em>You can imagine how well that's gone."</p><p>"Sherlock will talk circles around any therapist in London, voice or no."</p><p>"Yeah, I <em>know</em> that, that's the bloody problem. If he'd cooperate with one it could actually do some good, but there's no point in forcing him to see one. He's too smart for it to ever do any good if he doesn't want it to. He's got to actually be willing to talk to one." John stops, realising what he just said, and groans. "You know what I mean."</p><p>Across from him, Mycroft nods again, looking pale and lost in thought. He finishes doing up the buttons for his jacket, not quite meeting John's eyes. "I will take that into consideration."</p><p>"Take... what into consideration?"</p><p>But Mycroft does not reply, letting the words simply pass him by with no reaction at all. He sends a glance up the stairs, as if to make quite sure that Sherlock hasn't appeared to listen in.</p><p>John is not ready, however, for the non-sequitur that comes next.</p><p>"When we were children," Mycroft says conversationally, "Sherlock had a dog."</p><p>Um.</p><p>Okay.</p><p>John blinks. "Um," he says, very intelligently. "That's... nice." Does this have a point? He fidgets, swallowing hard, and is barely able to keep still-- he just wants to get upstairs and back to Sherlock.</p><p>"Hmm, yes. Quite." Mycroft sighs deeply, again lost in thought. "We tell people it was a family pet, but Redbeard was adopted as a puppy when Sherlock was a baby, and Sherlock was mostly the one to take care of him. We did not relate well to other children, as I'm sure you can imagine-- for ten years, Redbeard was Sherlock's closest and only friend."</p><p>Something tells John this is not a particularly happy story, or one that has a particularly happy ending.</p><p>Sherlock has never mentioned liking dogs. But, then, Sherlock never <em>mentions </em>much of anything like that to begin with-- not sentimental, human details like this. John wouldn't have believed it, a long time ago, but now he can see that it makes sense. A great, big, affectionate, over-eager dog, begging to be pet and played with? It's an excuse to be human. It's an excuse to be affectionate back and get attention and licked on the face and no one can judge him for it, because it's a <em>dog, </em>who'd be heartless enough to freeze out a dog?</p><p>He wonders if Mrs. Hudson would mind terribly, if they got a dog.</p><p>When John does not interrupt, Mycroft chooses to simply go on, as calm as if this is just a boring chat over tea. "When Sherlock was ten, Redbeard died. We lived out in the country, so Redbeard never learned what a car was or to run away if he saw one. He was running across the road to Sherlock, and one of Daddy's friends hit him with their car."</p><p>
  <em>Jesus. </em>
</p><p>Scratch asking Mrs. Hudson to get a dog, then.</p><p>John shudders, swallowing down his wince. "That can't have been... pretty," he ventures, because he feels like he has to give <em>something, </em>but there's nothing at all that's appropriate to say.</p><p>"Not very, no." Mycroft glances up the stairs again, looking grim. "Sherlock, for reasons he has never deigned to explain to me or anyone else, then simply-- decided-- to stop talking. He did not say another word for two months. He has never bothered to explain to me how it was that he eventually regained his voice, either. I suspect it is because he overheard Mummy, expressing how upset it made her."</p><p>"So... what, then? You think I should--" His stomach knots, and can barely get the words out past the anger gathering in his throat. "--should,<em> guilt Sherlock? </em>To stopping this? He's not doing this because it's fun for him, Mycroft!"</p><p>"No. I am simply telling you that this is not the first time Sherlock has lost his voice in response to a traumatic experience, and that all manners of expensive therapy, tempting with snacks and books, and any other forms of reward, accomplished little. He only chooses to adjust his behaviour when he deems it worth it." He pauses and frowns, his expression souring. "Though, do continue tempting with snacks. He's barely eating, John-- I presume we would both like to avoid a hospitalisation for malnutrition?"</p><p>All right, <em>no. </em>"Time for you to go, Mycroft," he snaps. He'd like to see <em>Mycroft </em>manage to get sustenance down the bastard's throat, especially when Sherlock is like this. He'd probably starve himself out of defiance alone.</p><p>The man simply raises a hand in farewell. He clearly has no eagerness to stay. "Best of luck, John," he says, only to pause again, foot halfway out the door. "You'll need it. Sherlock likely has a very good idea what we've been discussing down here for so long, and I can guarantee he will not be appreciative."</p><p>Then, Mycroft is out the door, and John is left standing alone at the foot of the stairs. The morning is not even an hour old, and already, he feels worse than he has all week.</p><p>He sinks down to the bottom step, holding his face in his hands. His feet feel like they're weighed down with concrete and his head is already starting to hurt.</p><p>This is not going to go well. It's just not. And John doesn't have any idea what to do, because he hasn't had any idea what to do this entire time.</p><p>All he does know, is that <em>this? </em>Sherlock, curling in his nest of blankets, ignoring John save for the occasional acceptance of cups of teas, and submerging himself in that <em>damn </em>textbook on British sign language?</p><p>This is not working.</p><p>John hates the bloody book. He doesn't even know where the hell it came from. One day, they got home from hospital, Sherlock hobbling under his arm up the stairs and so horrifyingly <em>silent.</em> The next, Sherlock had buried himself in his nest of blankets, and started to read.</p><p>Why? Why is he doing this? It's only been a couple weeks, and Sherlock's already just throwing in the bloody towel, giving up the fight? He's barely been discharged from hospital, and already he's just shrugging his shoulders, and learning a whole sodding new language rather than fighting for his voice back? This is <em>Sherlock bloody Holmes, </em>and it's like he doesn't even care!</p><p>John doesn't even know what they did to him to make him lose it in the first place.</p><p><em>And now, </em>he realises dully, <em>they're dead. </em></p><p>Every last one of them is dead. Now, they will never know. Not unless Sherlock is able to impart the information himself.</p><p>And he's not. What just happened this morning has shown that, clear as day. He's just not.</p><p>John shivers again, a weight settled in his chest and fucking hell, it hurts to breathe. He's sitting here, and it hurts to breathe, and for just one moment he wants to scream himself hoarse and not stop until he doesn't have anything to scream anymore.</p><p>He takes five seconds to just sit there at the foot of the stairs, swallowing against his hand, and trying not to weep.</p><p>Then, he hauls himself the hell back together, and makes a march back into the flat.</p><p>"Sherlock--"</p><p>The door to their bedroom slams shut. One of the blankets has been robbed from the sofa, and along with it, the textbook on British sign language. The bowl of biscuits, and the remains of tea, have both been left behind.</p><p>Despair settles down over his shoulders again.</p><p>He drops down to the couch with a heavy groan, sweeping up Sherlock's tea for himself. When he gathers up the will for it, he'll get his phone out, too, to text the most interfering, nosy big brother in all of Great Britain. The least Mycroft can do is give him a bloody warning for next time.</p><p>The pen Sherlock had hurled in his fit of rage and fear is still on the floor. Lonely, discarded, and sad.</p><p>One step forward, three steps backward.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. V: Tongue-Tied and Twisted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you all so much for all the comments/kudos, and for the well wishes- I do feel a bit better now :D And another quick thank you to the amazing J_Baillier for helping me out with NHS procedure here, because my training is American and I wanted to be accurate! I'd point my readers to her fics, but let's be real if you're reading my stuff it's because you have none of her masterpieces left to read ^_^</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Well?" John asks. He spreads his hands, arranging the steadiest, most confident smile that he can. "Go on, let me have it. I can see you thinking it."</p><p>Sherlock stares at him, his eyes hard and glassy. He curls his fingers together loosely, a slow, rhythmic stroking, the same way he thumbs around a cigarette or sucks on a pen. His face remains entirely expressionless as the deductions flicker through his brilliant head.</p><p>John tries again. "No? Nothing? Come on, don't be like this. I know you can see it. Or are you annoyed because I didn't commit a murder for you to solve?"</p><p>Now Sherlock rolls his eyes, his fingers tapping against each other even faster. He's amused, even while trying only to look exasperated instead, and John knows he's won.</p><p>At last, the genius sits forward, his steepled fingers unwound. He types into the keyboard, lightning quick, and a moment later, the text box springs up.</p><p>
  <em>She kissed you ?</em>
</p><p>Baiting it out further, John nods. Sherlock's brow furrows.</p><p>
  <em>She kissed you twice ?</em>
</p><p>"There it is, love."</p><p><em>She kissed you twice! </em>Sherlock is a cross between incredulous and fuming, and his hands fly now, the keyboard clicks suddenly deafening. <em>That's rude, isn't it, John? To kiss someone you know is otherwise involved? That's very rude!</em></p><p>"Yes, it is rude. I was more surprised than anything else, to be quite honest with you. I told her if she tried again, then I'm siccing my guard dog named Sherlock on her." He glances to the closed door of his exam room, making sure there's no one listening in, even as Sherlock silently smirks and shifts and preens, just a little. "How'd you know?"</p><p>Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. <em>Obvious. You washed off the lipstick but I can still see where she grabbed your shirt. If you were truly trying to hide it from me, you would've instead opened up by volunteering the explanation to the patient that threw up on you this morning.</em></p><p>He's right, of course. Got in one.</p><p>John beams back.</p><p>"There's really no need to worry," he mollifies, because Sherlock is continuing to try and crane his neck and squirm about in his chair, as if if he maneuvers just enough he'll be able to see right through the closed door and start glaring. "She didn't know about you. And was mortified when she found out."</p><p>Sherlock, somewhat unsurprisingly, continues to pout. <em>Still rude.</em></p><p>He shrugs. "Yes. But it gave you the chance to show off, didn't it? And we both know that's what's most important."</p><p>Sherlock sniffs again, obviously unimpressed. <em>I still think I ought to make an appearance. Under the presumption of delivering you a change of clothes, obviously. </em>He looks at John closer, a look of derision crossing his face, and sends another message. <em>Or perhaps I should simply deliver the shirt. You look positively plebeian. </em></p><p>"I don't see how a patient getting sick on me makes me look <em>plebeian</em>. Gross, maybe, but--"</p><p>
  <em>I was referring to the shirt in general, actually. Vomit has not improved it. But very little could improve it, save for a match.</em>
</p><p>"Sherlock!" John looks at himself in the Skype call's mirror, unable to help it, and-- come on. The shirt is not <em>that </em>bad. It's one of his older ones, from before the military, red and worn out and a bit wrinkled, and Sherlock is right about the faded pattern of vomit on one shoulder doing him no favors. But it is a perfectly fine, serviceable shirt. Old does not mean needing to be thrown out. There is nothing wrong with it, save for the fact that Sherlock apparently hates it, which is even more of a reason to keep it.</p><p>"Sherlock," he says again, pointing his finger at the screen. "If you start touching my clothes, I will start touching yours. I will mismatch your posh trousers with my <em>plebeian </em>shirts. I will trip all over your coat at the filthiest crime scene I can find. I will look <em>dreadful </em>and <em>silly </em>and all the reporters will be taking pictures of us together, looking like that, and those will be the ones I post on the blog."</p><p>Sherlock is now the one to look outright scandalised, and it is John's turn to beam across the call.</p><p>
  <em>You philistine.</em>
</p><p>"I love you, too."</p><p>Sherlock gives him back a wicked smile, his eyes bright and leering, and John only knows to smile right back.</p><p>This is going well.</p><p>This is going better than he'd have ever imagined it would.</p><p>They try and make sure to do this, now. At least once a day, whether Sherlock's in the mood for it or not-- they have a conversation. They sit down, and they have at least a five minute conversation about something that is not a case. It gives Sherlock a sorely needed outlet, and it gives him a step forwards to take every day, no matter how small-- a way to feel like he's making progress even if he doesn't feel that any other way.</p><p>He tells the others at the surgery that Sherlock's laptop's microphone is broken. It's enough. For now.</p><p>He doesn't want to think about how that excuse might have to change, if this goes on long enough that that stops being believable. Because it won't. This is <em>not </em>permanent. It is <em>not.</em></p><p>John is just about to press Sherlock for another deduction when he stops, something catching his attention. "Do you hear that?" he asks, more to himself than Sherlock-- broken microphone or not, the quality of John's old laptop over a Skype call is probably not all that great. Sure enough, Sherlock only looks confused as John makes to stand, frowning towards the shut door to his exam room. Shouting. He can hear shouting, from just outside. "Sherlock, sorry, hang on a minute..."</p><p>Sherlock does not look at all like he wants for him to go. But he can't say anything to stop him, and John hurries for the door.</p><p>"--ridiculous! We just need a bloody doctor, you're all doctors, aren't you?! <em>Well?!"</em></p><p>There is a couple at the reception desk, although 'couple' is perhaps phrasing it much too charitably. A young woman, about John's height and pressing a bloody towel to her forehead, chalk white or even a little green, one arm gripped about by who is certainly supposed to be her boyfriend. A hulking mountain of a man that's taller than Sherlock and not at all as thin, shouting at the poor girl at reception-- the one who'd tried to kiss John earlier today, as a matter of fact. Whatever lingering resentments he has towards her evaporate, because she looks like she's about to cry now, and for good reason. That man is definitely on something, and clearly has no reluctance whatsoever about hitting a woman.</p><p><em>"I'm waiting!" </em>he bellows, hauling his girlfriend along another step. She yelps and nearly drops the towel, revealing a black eye and a head injury that definitely needs looking at. "Someone needs to see us! <em>Now!"</em></p><p><em>No, </em>John thinks, his hand flexing and tightening into a fist by his side. <em>Someone needs to teach you a damn lesson.</em></p><p>They're attracting a crowd, now, other doctors and nurses stepping out of exam rooms while most of the patients in the waiting room are trying very hard not to look at them. A few look ready to get up and make a run for the door. Another quick glance around shows Sarah Sawyer already on the phone, assuredly calling security or the police.</p><p>John somehow doubts that they can wait to diffuse this situation until the police get there.</p><p>He starts to step forward, already sifting through a few choice words for what's best to say to keep everything calm. The girl does need looking at, he is a doctor... if he volunteers, maybe he'll be able to put the budding explosion on ice until the police arrive. Or perhaps--</p><p>"Hey! <em>Hey! </em>What are you doing?!"</p><p>The poor receptionist flinches back, so startled she nearly tips her chair to the ground. She jerks backwards with her hand off the panic button, gone the same color as the walls and her voice squeaked a full octave higher. "Nothing! Nothing, I wasn't, I swear I wasn't--"</p><p>The man starts to raise his fist, and-- well, bloody hell.</p><p><em>Here we go</em>, John groans, and starts forward.</p><hr/><p>The rest of John's day after that is very little short of embarrassing.</p><p>He doesn't remember the details. He remembers the Skype call with Sherlock, and very distinctly remembers being called a philistine. More fuzzily, he remembers hearing shouting from outside, and getting up to go investigate.</p><p>The next thing John knows, he's moaning on the floor of the surgery, Sarah kneeling over him sternly calling his name, trying to get him to open his eyes, and his head feeling as if it's about to split open. Bloody <em>hell.</em></p><p>When he says he likes action and adrenaline, this really isn't what he means.</p><p>He's sitting in A&amp;E now. Grumpy, his already apparently ugly shirt now ruined with dots of blood and exchanged for a borrowed scrub top instead, and every single bit of him sore as a wrung out flannel. It's exhausting-- <em>he</em> is exhausted-- and more than a little bit put out on how his day has gone. One six foot tall mountain decides to get hopped up on PCP, and next thing John knows, he's laid out on a cold gurney with a probable concussion and the promise of being stuck at home for the rest of the week.</p><p>He can only hope Lestrade is the one who catches this case. The story of him apparently kneeing Mr. Mountain in the crotch to bring him down after a punch to the face hadn't been enough really isn't his best, but Lestrade will let him go home before dragging out his statement. Maybe Sherlock will even concede to getting the shopping.</p><p>John winces, carefully prodding at the short line of stitches in his head. He has to wait on the results to get back from the requisite head scans, but after that, he has his hopes he'll be home free. It's a Tuesday afternoon, one of the slowest times of day, so surely it's not going to take that much longer.</p><p>Soon, he'll have poured himself into his own bed, where he has plans to stay, possibly until his head stops hurting, possibly until the end of time. Either one sounds good, right about now. Especially if Sherlock is in a good mood.</p><p>Oh, <em>Sherlock.</em></p><p>John groans again.</p><p>Sherlock is really never going to let him hear the end of this one.</p><p>John has only been left waiting for a little over two hours when he hears the physician stop outside his room to wash off his hands. He immediately starts to sit up, still holding a hand to his head and swallowing nausea back behind clenched teeth, and has just made it all the way up when his attending enters the room.</p><p>"Good news, Dr. Watson," he says, shutting his case file with a <em>snap. </em>"You're all good to go."</p><p>"Go home?"</p><p>"Go home," he agrees. "You'll have one hell of a headache, but you're not going to die. Of this, at least." He gives John a slight smile, and moves forward to give him a hand when he sees John being especially careful about standing up. "Though I'd recommend you stay at home for the rest of the week... especially if this sort of situation is common where you work."</p><p>John sways for a moment, faintly woozy. His head hurts, his stomach is swimming, and it feels like he's had one too much to drink. <em>Ow. </em>But he steels himself as stubbornly as he can-- passing out or vomiting right now is a good way to get the doctor to change his mind about admitting him-- and grits his teeth into as close to a smile as he can get. "No," he says, at least. when he's found his voice again. "No, thank god. A&amp;E tends to be more dangerous than where I'm at."</p><p>It's not more dangerous than what he gets up to with Sherlock, though, and the reminder just gives John another reason to frown. Sherlock's going to be more than a bit put out that John won't be there at crime scenes for the next several days.</p><p>Well, John determines, he's just going to have to deal with it.</p><p>He allows the doctor to lead him on through the mostly empty corridors still rubbing his head, intent only on seeking out a taxi idling outside. Once upon a time, he could've counted on Mycroft to have already had a car waiting for him on the kerb.</p><p>Today, John doesn't know if there will be one at all. But if there is, he's not fucking taking it.</p><p>"Oh," his physician says suddenly, turning to John. "We also tried to give your emergency contact a call, but there was no answer. We left a message about the situation, but you should know, whoever he is is probably very worried about you right now."</p><p>"My emergency contact?" John frowns, his unsteady steps faltering again. "My--"</p><p>He reels to a nauseated halt.</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock.</em>
</p><p>Sherlock is his emergency contact. They had called Sherlock. Who, of course, would not have been able to answer the phone. Who now only has a single voicemail to go off of, telling him that John has ended up in hospital with a head injury.</p><p>Who had been there on Skype, possibly overhearing the shouting, watching John vanish off screen with little more than a goodbye.</p><p>Oh, <em>fuck.</em></p><p>How long had the call stayed open? He knows Sherlock, he wouldn't have hung up right away, not when John had disappeared like that. Had he heard the cacophony of the fist fight? He must have; John had ended up wrestled to the floor next to the receptionist's computer and the basket of intake folders, it would've been so loud-- oh, shit, shit, <em>shit. </em>And what else after that, then? The ambulance and police sirens?</p><p>Sarah, calling his name? Telling him to wake up?</p><p>
  <em>Shit!</em>
</p><p>And John has just been sitting here, knowing that, for <em>two hours </em>now. He's just been sitting here, bemoaning about how much his head hurts, while Sherlock... <em>fuck. </em>He hadn't even given him a second <em>thought-</em></p><p>John scrabbles for his phone, his heart racing. Where is it,<em> where is it. </em>He is the worst boyfriend, he is the-- fuck, where <em>is it--</em></p><p>The memory hits him all at once and he moans, sagging right there in the middle of the corridor. It's still in his exam room, at the surgery. He'd taken it out of his pocket to text Sherlock, to remind him to get on Skype, and he'd left it there. It's still there, with his laptop and all of his things. Shit.</p><p>"...you all right, Dr. Watson?"</p><p>He has to get home. He has to get home right now.</p><p>John swallows, wrenching his breaths back under control. Once again, the very last thing he needs right now is to pass out or get sick. "Fine," he mutters, "I... I just really need to get home."</p><p>He picks up the pace, now intent only on getting out to the kerb to start on his way back home. It's only been two hours. That's all. Just a bit over two hours, that's not bad, that's not bad at all. Sherlock knows how long A&amp;E can take, and he's not an idiot, surely he's deduced all that's happened for himself-- he has to have! In fact, John is going to rush back home to find Sherlock sitting there in his armchair, sipping a cup of tea, all smug and proper, watching John with a raised eyebrow that just about says out loud <em>I was wondering when you were going to show up. </em>And then <em>good riddance to the shirt, </em>yes, of course that's how this is going to play out, and he's going to feel like an idiot, and then Sherlock is going to fuss over his head and promise to do unspeakable things to the idiot who hit him, and everything is going to be fine.</p><p>It's going to be fine, it's <em>all going to be fine--</em></p><p>John is in such a dizzy rush to make it to the door, he doesn't even process what he hears going on behind him until he's a step outside, and it's almost too late.</p><p>"Sir, sir, please calm down! If you can just explain what you're looking for-- you can't touch that! <em>Sir!"</em></p><p>John has already intervened to stop one unruly, potentially violent man from letting loose on a receptionist today. It has gotten him a hospital visit, a week at home on the sofa, and one heart attack in the making. He's no wilting lily of a bystander, but he's also more than put in his due diligence, today-- now would be right about the time to pretend he hadn't heard anything, keep his back turned, and just go home.</p><p>Except... <em>no...</em></p><p>
  <em>Surely not...</em>
</p><p>John turns, feeling as if his feet are stuck in wet cement.</p><p>His heart leaps straight up back into his throat.</p><p>Sherlock is standing at the sign-in desk for A&amp;E. He is a sight to behold. He gestures madly with his coat disheveled and the usual knot of his scarf hanging loose, and if John didn't know any better, he would've thought Sherlock was on something, too. The receptionist is midway through pushing him back, as if she's just had to double back to stop him from swinging around the counter to check the computer himself.</p><p>Once again, the poor receptionist looks more than a little frightened. Once again, John can not blame her.</p><p>"Sir," she stresses, "<em>please, </em>if you can just explain what you're here for?" Her hand inches closer to what John knows must be the panic button. "Do you need to see a doctor?"</p><p>Sherlock shakes his head furiously in mad desperation, tearing at his hair, his collar, his mouth, but all of it in absolute silence. He is clearly well past his wit's end, and he struggles so much with communication <em>normally</em>, even before all of this--slowing down, properly expressing he can not speak, and doing something as <em>slow </em>and <em>average </em>as writing down what he wants, or typing it, is clearly beyond him. He's too frantic. He can't do it.</p><p>The receptionist is starting to stand, and she's not the only one. Security has taken notice as well, two uniformed officers making a wary, silent approach. John's heart lurches again and he starts forward himself, because oh, <em>joy, </em>that is <em>just </em>what they need, for Sherlock to get <em>bloody arrested--</em></p><p>Sherlock hammers a fist on the desk just as the girl starts to step turn away, not to hurt or threaten anyone but instead just trying to pull her attention back. She does stop what she's doing, at least, returning her attention to him in wary apprehension, and security pauses as well, even tenser than her.</p><p>And Sherlock--</p><p>He's frozen on the spot. He gulps for air, John can see it from here, one hand clutching at his chest while the other is suddenly shaking, hanging onto the counter for dear life. Combined with having staggered himself into an A&amp;E, a panting and clearly desperate wreck, now he looks like he might just be having chest pain or an anxiety attack, and the receptionist is looking as if she's torn between calling security or a doctor. It's not helping. It's not helping Sherlock's state at all.</p><p>But John looks at him, and he sees what's there underneath his frantic, building fury and terror.</p><p>Sherlock's trying to speak. He realises how out of control this has gotten and he knows this is his one chance to explain himself before he gets thrown out of this hospital or worse. He has no choice left to speak. And he's<em> trying.</em></p><p>For the first time in months, Sherlock is trying to speak.</p><p>John freezes right there on the spot, just like Sherlock. And it might make him the worst boyfriend in the world, but he freezes right there in the face of Sherlock's breathless panic, and instead of moving forward to put an end to it-- he waits.</p><p><em>Come on,</em> he rallies silently. <em>Come on, Sherlock. You can do it. I know you can. You're so close, come on, Sherlock! You can do this! Just a little further--!</em></p><p>The silence stretches on. The receptionist looks more and more confused, as Sherlock apparently got her attention just to stand there gaping like a fish. The security guards are lost, too, but Sherlock-- he's still trying. He's so <em>close. </em>He obviously believes he can do it; if he didn't, why else would he have tried to get their attention? And that's the biggest hurdle, isn't it, getting Sherlock to actually believe in himself? He only has to go just a little bit further, just one word, that's all he needs, just one word. John knows it. He only needs just one word to break through and he's trying. He's so close. He can <em>do this. </em></p><p>
  <em>You're so close, Sherlock, come on... I'm right here with you. It's okay, just say it... just open your mouth and say something, damn it Sherlock, anything at all, it doesn't matter what. Come on, come on, Sherlock, I know you can do this...</em>
</p><p>"Sherlock!"</p><p>Everybody jumps, and John's hopes deflate inside him right along with the tension like a popped balloon.</p><p>Lestrade jogs in through the entrance all in a rush himself, catching up to Sherlock with a hand on his back and noticing the oncoming security just as John had. He works out his badge, using it to wave them off, taking control of the situation, and-- that's it. There it is. That's the end of it.</p><p>Every last bit of John's hopes disintegrate to ash.</p><p>"John Watson," he pants, "we're looking for John Watson-- Sherlock, lad, I told you to wait for me, come on--"</p><p>Sherlock is barely listening to the reprimand. He's back to being one bristling ball of impatience and nerves, but the urgency in him has vanished like water rolling down the drain. He's no longer even trying.</p><p>Whatever bits of himself he'd been so desperately trying to cobble together before, fighting to just get out one single word, one name after five sickening months of silence-- he's not trying now.</p><p>His stomach goes cold and miserable, like he's just been forcefed a glass of ice water, and for a moment, John just wants to sit down on the floor and hold his aching head in his hands.</p><p>He slumps forward in defeat instead.</p><p>"Here," he calls.</p><p>Sherlock spins around so fast his coat swirls, perked back up as if electrified. The light switch in his head flips back on, his eyes gone bright and locked with John's, a live wire of rough hands and wild hair that bolts to him like a bloody magnet.</p><p>John lets himself be grabbed, for Sherlock touch his face, turn his head this way and that, run fingers through his hair. Sherlock examines him all for himself right there in the middle of the corridor, in the urgent, possessive way that only Sherlock can, stealing the space from the room and the breath from his lungs-- touching the stitches, staring deeply into his eyes, touching the stitches again, scanning him all over like he's a piece of evidence, <em>god </em>it's too much. He even moves his finger back and forth as if John's not already done that three times in the past hour. He's too crestfallen to tease him for it, or smack his hand away.</p><p>"I'm okay," he promises instead, curling a hand around Sherlock's. "Concussion. They just discharged me."</p><p>Lestrade joins them, looking almost as exhausted and relieved as Sherlock. The ride here must have been maddening. "Jesus, mate, you gave us a real scare, you know that? You never take a day off, do you?"</p><p>John can barely muster anything more than a limp grin in return. He's not in the mood to joke about this anymore.</p><p>He quickly exchanges a few details with Lestrade, setting up a time when he'll give his statement for the assault case that's currently pending, thanking him for helping Sherlock out, assuring him that he really is fine, he just wants to go home. Sherlock, of course, takes no part in the conversation whatsoever. He seems to be quite content pretending Lestrade does not exist, actually, no attempt made whatsoever to involve himself-- but--</p><p>The way he <em>looks </em>at John. The way he's looking at John right now, his inquisitive eyes narrowing and a shroud fallen across his white face. The urgent terror from before has faded, as has the fury at not being understood, and the rage at whatever mouth-breathing idiot had hit John on the head. He stares at John instead, with eyes that are too intelligent to escape from, and a gaze that sees too much to ever hide from.</p><p>He knows something's wrong. Maybe not what, exactly. But Sherlock knows something is wrong, and it has nothing at all to do with the blow to the head.</p><p>"Home, then?" Lestrade asks, tilting his head back towards the entrance. "I can you two lads a lift back to Baker Street. It's on my way back to the Yard, anyway."</p><p>Sherlock utterly ignores him. Sherlock does not respond in any way, and instead just keeps watching John with those narrowed, wary eyes.</p><p>"Home," John agrees, forcing a smile that just about makes him feel sick, and catches Sherlock's cold fingers back into his own</p><p>Next time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>Next chapter is an important one! *spraybottles Mycroft in preparation* Chapters 2 and 3 are more fillery, which is why I posted this on early, so I can try and post the next one soon!</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. IV: To the Brink and Back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks so much for all the comments/kudos!!!</p><p>You asked for more protective!John, and I listened! Well, this chapter actually didn't have much room for editing beyond what was already there to begin with. But future chapters hopefully will let me do even more! Meanwhile I guess I'm not as no longer sick as I thought, endometriosis is a fucking bitch and a half, so I'll just be over here on the floor with more crackers if you need me. Yay for sad Sherlock giving me something to occupy myself &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The room is still pitch black, his limbs heavy and his head as equally fuzzy, when the slap of a limb jolts John out of sleep.</p><p>He only wakes up at all with the spasm of Sherlock's leg, like a dog kicking in its sleep. It kicks John's own shin, and he turns over in the dim light, barely awake at all and feeling as if he's clawing his way out of a dark well.</p><p>Sherlock huddles on his side, little more than a loose ball of long limbs and messy hair. His back is to John, so he can't see his face, but he hears the sharp, desperate gasps for breath, the sick panting, and the pieces click.</p><p>"Sher--" he starts, but then another piece clicks, and his throat closes shut.</p><p>Touching Sherlock does not help. Speaking to him, when he is like this, does not help.</p><p>John squeezes his eyes shut, his heart aching, and eases his way out of bed instead.</p><p>"Sherlock," he commands, his voice loud and with the bite of a soldier, and flips the lights on.</p><p>The reaction is as immediate as it is terrible. Sherlock jolts awake as suddenly as if John had just hit him, flinching backwards in his bundle of sheets and-- and he just continues to gasp. He lies there and clutches his chest and gasps for breath, his eyes blown wide and his hair stuck to his scalp with sweat, and for several horrible moments it's just that. Sherlock, gasping for breath, and John, knowing that he can not stop it.</p><p>Sherlock rolls upright, one hand fisting in the sheets and other still fisted into his shirt. He just sits there on the edge of the bed, his mouth moving silently, but no sound comes out. No sound ever comes out, because John <em>hates </em>himself, but he's tried it. He's tried watching Sherlock, when he's just woken up from the torment his own incredible mind forces on him. He's tried even just kneeling there watching him caught in the throes of a nightmare, disgusted with himself the whole time but watching his mouth move. Waiting. Hoping. Heartbroken and <em>desperate.</em></p><p>It's never mattered. Whatever mental block there is that stops him from speaking while awake, it's still there in his head when he's asleep.</p><p>"Sherlock," he repeats gently. He settles down with him, resting his hands on his sharp, bony knees. <em>Sherlock. Come back to me.</em></p><p>He wrenches in another breath, deep and shaking and stricken. He looks terrified; he's barely even <em>breathing</em>.</p><p>John wants to hold him. He wants to hit something, he wants to hide under the blankets with him and keep him safe from the entire rest of the world; he wants to shove those tiny little gasps he's making back down into his throat because that's <em>all the sound that he can make </em>and John never wants to have to hear them again.</p><p>"That's it," he murmurs, nodding in time with each of Sherlock's rapid-fire wheezes of breath. "There you go. You're doing great, Sherlock, that's brilliant. Keep going, baby, just like that."</p><p>Sherlock finally wrenches one of his hands free, long fingers cupped to the side of John's neck and pressing right into his pulse. He presses so hard it's almost uncomfortable, an obstruction forced inwards as he tries to breathe, but he lets him do it without complaint. <em>He can have it. He can have it all.</em> He'd breathe for Sherlock and give him his heartbeat if he could make this better.</p><p>"It's Wednesday," he says softly. He rubs a thumb in slow circles over the bend of Sherlock's knee. "You've got nothing on, today, unless you've not told me. We finished a case last night. I've started writing it up, but you didn't like my title. The Nail in the Coffin. No good?"</p><p>Sherlock's breaths continue to be hard-fought and desperate, each one torn from deep, deep in his chest. His wild hair spills over his eyes and stands up on end, and he wrenches a hand upwards to yank his nails through it, pushing it back and out of the way.</p><p>"I have a surgery shift today. Not important, though. Someone wants their vaccine jabs. Another need a physical for work. Here would be more interesting. Especially after last night."</p><p>He gasps in another breath. This one breaks into a silent whine and suddenly he blinks hard, wet tears spilling down one cheek. He can't stop whispering soundlessly, his mouth moving too fast for any intended words to make any sense, but he never makes even the tiniest whimper of a noise.</p><p>"We're at home. You, and me, at Baker Street. We're safe. You're wearing the pajamas you hate because you spilled acid on your favourite ones. We're out of milk. We have extra salt, because you made a whole pile when neutralising said acid-- no, we're not using it on any food. The kitchen's a wreck right now, actually. Please say you'll help me clean it today. Sherlock."</p><p>He's starting to babble, now, to run out of things to say. He keeps on going anyway, repeating himself and reciting older cases and when that runs out just tells him how brilliant he is. How fantastic he is. How <em>strong </em>he is and how much John loves him.</p><p>Sherlock stares at him, his thumb still pressed to his throat, and says nothing. He never, ever, tries to say anything.</p><p>It's always like this. Sherlock is scared and trembling and can hardly breathe, and his eyes are huge and his face is the worst he's ever seen it-- and whatever it is that he's so scared of, the only balm for it that there is, is John's pulse. The only thing that he ever wants is to feel John's heart beating underneath his hands.</p><p>It speaks volumes, about what he dreams about. It speaks volumes about what they did to him. It speaks volumes about what Sherlock's priorities are even now, so traumatised he can't speak and hurt more than they will likely ever know, but the one thing he cares about is making sure John is okay.</p><p>How could anyone ever believe that this man is a heartless sociopath? How could anyone ever spend more than two minutes with him, and actually walk away believing he doesn't care about anything but himself?</p><p>Sherlock takes in a long, deep breath, shutting his eyes to gather his wits back around him. He sits there on the edge of the bed, looking to be a complete mess and his composure in shreds, but he draws himself up and breathes, and just like that, he stops shaking.</p><p>He sits forward, and kisses John. He kisses John with all the force and desperation of a dying man, his hands tangling into his hair and face with a possessiveness that is hungry, that <em>needs, </em>and when John kisses him back it's as if he goes from swimming to drowning. He shrinks underneath his hands, gasping into his mouth and kissing him like this is his last chance and if he doesn't do it now, he'll never be able to do it again.</p><p>Then, he looms silently to his feet, and stalks out of their room with a flourish of silk dressing gown.</p><hr/><p>John calls in sick, and goes to Tesco's instead.</p><p>It's probably a bad idea. Sherlock is not stupid, and just because he doesn't announce his deductions for the world to hear them nowadays does not mean he isn't making them. Sherlock will know he's staying home because he's worried about him. Sherlock will also not appreciate it one bit.</p><p>Well, John figures, if Sherlock doesn't need to be minded today? Then he'll be glad to comply. All Sherlock has to do is speak up and say so, and John will give him whatever it is he asks for.</p><p>It's probably a bit mean-spirited. But John is more than a little bit past caring, at this point.</p><p>He hasn't had a conversation with Sherlock in over four months.</p><p>John actually doesn't mind that he hasn't had a vocal, back and forth, spoken with words conversation. Or-- he <em>does, </em>but he understand it's not Sherlock's fault. If Sherlock can't talk to him right now, that's <em>okay</em>. He doesn't need to. They can make something else work. They are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Whatever they need to make work, they <em>will. </em></p><p>But there's nothing else.</p><p>Sherlock still struggles to write, and John still struggles to sign. Even If John had learned sign language as fast as Sherlock, he doubts how helpful it would be.</p><p>Sherlock is capable enough at communicating now, when it comes to crime scenes and his deductions. He texts without issue, and he signs vigorously with Donovan, taking the criticisms in stride. But beyond what he needs for the Work... it's as if there are now two Sherlocks. One, the genius consulting detective, and then, the one that plays violin and loves dogs and curls up delightedly on John's lap. The genius consulting detective is able to speak, albeit with much difficulty. His Sherlock, the one that can not even pretend to be a machine, no matter how much he might like to be one, can not.</p><p>And what it boils down to is that John has barely got more than a nod or a shake of a head out of the man that he loves in over four months.</p><p>He's considering a dog. Asking about one, at least, to Mrs. Hudson and to Sherlock. He's delayed it thus far since broaching that question would be minefield, because it means admitting to Sherlock he's been talking about him behind his back with Mycroft. But at this point, what else can he do?</p><p>Sherlock refuses, he flat out <em>refuses, </em>to see a therapist. John's complained about it to Mycroft, but, ultimately, that's the end of that line. If Sherlock says no, Sherlock says no.</p><p>Sherlock self-destructs. He barely eats, and whenever he sleeps, he has nightmares more often than not. What about, he will never tell John. He experiments like a mad scientist and he chops up limbs from Molly in the kitchen and he flits around crime scenes like a man possessed and he can't play his violin.</p><p>Which is horrible for John, yes, but the part that really worries him, is how horrible it must be for Sherlock.</p><p>John has spent four months unable to talk to Sherlock. Sherlock has spent the same period of time unable to talk to <em>anyone. </em>Whatever horrible things they did to him, whatever frustrations he has with John, whatever feelings he's had-- because Sherlock <em>does </em>have them, no matter how vehemently he denies that they are nothing more than the fly in the ointment for the stupid-- they're stuck in his rat nest of a head. John can vent to any number of his friends, many of whom care about Sherlock too and are worried about him. Sherlock has nothing. Sherlock has no one.</p><p>John tosses a pack of cigarettes into the basket, just for him. There are worse things, than indulging in a nicotine addiction. He does not reply, when the cashier makes a comment about how poor Mr. Holmes is relapsing back on the smokes again.</p><p>He's not quite sure what his plans are, after this. He needs to get back to the flat, to put away the milk and the other things that need the fridge, but after that he's still torn. It all depends on how Sherlock is doing. It also all depends on how willing Sherlock is towards tolerating John at the flat today.</p><p>He might not be vocal about it, but oh, he is still <em>perfectly capable </em>of throwing the strop to end all strops.</p><p>John turns the corner back to Baker Street, already digging a hand into his pockets for his keys.</p><p>And he stops dead.</p><p>There are two men in suits on the street, standing silently just outside the door to the flat. On the kerb idles the long, black car that is symptomatic of a spontaneous appearance of Mycroft Holmes, and both men have the unmistakeable appearance of being his government agents.</p><p>John groans.</p><p>Today isn't going well at all, then.</p><p>He jogs up the street all the rest of the way back, barely even sparing the agents a glance. They'll keep out of his way if they know what's good for them. "I'll just go on up, then, ta?" he mutters, bags jostling on his arms, and takes the stairs two at a time.</p><p>Mycroft and Sherlock are alone in the flat. This time, Mycroft is most clearly not here for a case.</p><p>Mycroft sits calmly in <em>John's </em>chair, his hands folded in his lap and his umbrella propped up by his side. There are no case files in sight, and it is to no one's surprise that Sherlock has not poured him a cuppa. The look on Mycroft's face is-- exasperated, if he has to put a word on it. In a patronising, annoyed sort of way, like a parent who has had to tell their five year old <em>no, we are not getting ice cream </em>for the five hundredth time, and has really, <em>really </em>lost their patience for it.</p><p>And then, there is Sherlock.</p><p>Sherlock is on his feet and panting, his nostrils flared and eyes blown wide in incandescent fury. He looks like a wild animal, almost, chalk pale and all corded and tense, and god, there's no other word for it-- he's frightened. Oh, he's angry as all hell, and he'd be shouting if he had his voice and he might just start shouting anyway, through sheer stubbornness and fury alone. But he's frightened. Sherlock Holmes is frightened.</p><p>John doesn't know what the fuck is going on here, but he's going to sock Mycroft in the face.</p><p>"Mycroft?" John drops the bags to the floor right there by the door, and he wastes no time at all in rushing to join Sherlock. He doesn't risk touching Sherlock, not yet, but he comes to stand right next to him and he knows both Holmes brothers will read it for what it means. <em>I am on his side. I am always and forever on his side. Get away from us. </em>"What are you doing here, Mycroft?"</p><p>The politician rolls his eyes, like the display is childish, somehow. A childish and dramatic tantrum, and not his <em>dear brother, </em>panting and furious and <em>scared</em>. "I was hoping an additional voice of reason might perhaps be able to sway Sherlock. Surely you'll at least do me the favor of listening, John-- you know how he tends to the dramatic."</p><p>Sherlock inhales again, jerky and ragged. His face is flushed and shiny with sweat and he looks as upset as he was last night all over again.</p><p>If this goes the wrong way, if this even hints the slightest at a wrong turn, Sherlock will bolt like a startled gazelle and they can not stop him. They will not catch him.</p><p>He wants to hold him. He wants to wrap his fists in his own hands and ease his tense shoulders down and press his forehead to his heaving chest, to tell him to slow down, to breathe, to trust him. It's all going to be okay. Don't listen to Mycroft, Sherlock, don't look at him. It's going to be okay.</p><p>He can't do that, so he does the second best, instead.</p><p>He steps further in front of Sherlock, just enough that his hand can brush Sherlock's jittering one. "<em>What. Are. You. Doing. Here." </em>He stares back at him, a silent, unspoken threat. There's a baseball bat propped against the wall, an autographed gift from a client. John will fucking use it. "I'm not going to ask again."</p><p>Mycroft sighs, folding his fingers together with a very prim sort of attitude. He'd look at home arrogantly flipping a magazine, or sipping a cup of tea with his pinky in the air. He does not, in any way whatsoever, look at home here. "I've come to transfer Sherlock to a private clinic. All paid for, of course, and perfectly discreet. It comes quite highly recommended, and if he would prefer, you could research the facility yourself. It will provide the best of care."</p><p>"Best of... what? A private clinic?" John reels for a moment, his mind a blank. Sherlock is even paler now, fish-grey and frozen in place; he looks almost ill. This wasn't what he'd expected to hear. "You mean something inpatient?" But Sherlock would never agree to that. Not in a million years.</p><p>"Well, he's refused outpatient treatment thus far, as we've discussed, John. You have already expressed to me that you think treatment would be a good idea... the next logical step is, naturally, inpatient."</p><p>"Inpatient--"</p><p>The pieces click.</p><p>The pieces click, and whatever there was left of John's tentative good will towards Mycroft disintegrates like he'd just squashed it as a bug under his foot.</p><p>"You want to section Sherlock," he says numbly. Next to him, Sherlock stiffens, confirming the horrible truth of the words without any need for it from Mycroft himself. "Because Sherlock refuses to go of his own accord."</p><p>That's what those agents down on the street are for. It dawns on him like a blow to the fucking head. Those agents are here for when Sherlock inevitably refuses, and they are there to prevent him from bolting out the door. They are there to force him into the car and drive him to Mycroft's nice, cushy, padded <em>clinic, </em>and have him admitted, whether it's under his own power or kicking and screaming.</p><p>Mycroft wants to take Sherlock away from him.</p><p>Mycroft tilts his head, his pale eyes searching between the two of them as bugs pinned under sheets of glass. Sherlock starts to gesture furiously, his hands shaking and his fingers tearing through the required motions like lightning, but Mycroft only rolls his eyes, interrupting before Sherlock's even halfway through whatever he wants to say. "Brother mine, you are being ridiculous. We both know I can get the papers signed, whether you fit the criteria or not."</p><p>"He doesn't fit the criteria, Mycroft!"</p><p>"My physician says he does."</p><p>"Yeah?" John snaps. He's so angry he can barely see straight. This is not happening. Mycroft <em><b>will not </b></em>take Sherlock away from him. "Then you should've asked one not on your payroll. He's not a danger to himself or others and you can't force him to get treatment that he doesn't want."</p><p>Mycroft raises an eyebrow. The smug look on his face is <em>fucking infuriating, </em>but the man says nothing, just sits there with a raised eyebrow and his eyes on Sherlock. John, a knot in his stomach, is helpless to do anything but follow his gaze, and find what it is that he sees.</p><p>Sherlock is still backed against the wall, his thin chest heaving and face dotted with sweat. For a moment, John has no idea what Mycroft is so obviously referring to-- but then he sees it.</p><p>Sherlock's nervous, ever fluttering hands, wrung together and gone stock still. His long, white fingers are curled around each other, twisted against his wrists, a spotlight shining on the lines and lines of red scratches. Anxious, raw marks, cut by Sherlock's own fingernails into Sherlock's own skin. He can not hide them, and he can not pretend they are anything other than what they are. Sherlock is so anxious by what is happening here right now that he has scratched his own arms red, raw, and bleeding.</p><p>John stares up at Sherlock's stricken, furious face, a rock in his stomach. Sherlock can not-- will not-- look back at him. He gulps frantically, his throat jumping as if he desperately wants to defend himself, but can not.</p><p>He really looks like what he wants to do is take his chances jumping out the window.</p><p>John swallows, hard. It's like forcing down a lead ball, but he does it, and he turns his gaze back to Mycroft without interrogation. He hates that Mycroft was the one to see this, he hates that Sherlock looks like he does, and he <em>hates</em> the look on Mycroft's smug face. But right now, all this is about is getting Mycroft the fuck out of this flat. Everything else will wait.</p><p>"That's not enough, Mycroft. That, on its own, is not enough. And that's all that it is." He looks at Sherlock, because he <em>trusts him,</em> damn it, and he wants Sherlock in this conversation because he can think of no more succinct way to tell the man to fuck off. "Isn't it, Sherlock?"</p><p>Sherlock nods furiously, all but desperate to speak up but he can't, he <em>can't. </em>His eyes blaze as he waves a fist, one of the few signs John knows, the sign for<em> yes, </em>and he keeps waving it as John faces back to Mycroft.</p><p>Mycroft, who is looking decidedly unimpressed, by Sherlock's desperate efforts to communicate. "If you think those are the only signs, John, you are a much worse doctor than my dear brother gives you credit for." He stands, and Sherlock flinches back while John jerks forward, he will punch his <em>lights out </em>if he tries to touch him, but all the bastard does is gesture with enough smugness to choke on it. "He barely sleeps; he certainly didn't last night-- I can see it from here--"</p><p>"That's not his fault! And that's doesn't fit the criteria for <em>sectioning, </em>you sodding arsehole, that's any college student-"</p><p>"When was the last time he ate? A day ago, perhaps? Two?"</p><p>Ice freezes in John's stomach. "We've been on a case," he spits past gritted teeth. "He's never eaten when he's on a case, Mycroft." God knows this isn't something he wants to defend, and Mycrof is <em>right, </em>Sherlock <em>hasn't </em>been eating, but not like this. This will not happen like this. No, no, <em>no. </em></p><p>But Mycroft is only looking increasingly exasperated the longer that this goes on. Clearly, he had not expected to have to argue his point against John, too, and with this latest protest looks about to just throw his hands up and call in the men in the white coats to take them <em>both </em>away. "For god's sake, John, were you not the one who requested this? <em>You </em>were the one who said to me that Sherlock needed treatment! He's had every opportunity to accept it voluntarily-- this is the only option that there is left for me to take!"</p><p>Next to him, Sherlock flinches violently again, rocking backwards against the wall. He goes back to stock still, the bookcase still rattling behind them, and the only motion there is from the corner of his eye is the wretched heaving of breath. He sounds like a cornered, terrified animal.</p><p>John can not bear to look at him now. He can not physically turn his head the requisite few inches to see the betrayed look on Sherlock's face.</p><p><em>Please don't run, </em>he begs silently. <em>Please. Don't make this worse. Just stay, let me explain. Please don't run. Please don't run.</em></p><p>"This is not what I meant," he finally forces out, his voice quiet. That baseball bat is looking better and better an option. He swallows roughly, a solid mass of self-loathing and disgust and guilt solidifying in his gut. "Mycroft. Nothing that you've said here is enough. He is <em>dealing </em>with a <em>major trauma. </em>That means being <em>traumatised</em>-- and that means giving him the space to be that. A few weeks with an overpriced therapist at a clinic on the beach is not going to fix this."</p><p>Mycroft rolls his eyes again, looking at Sherlock rather than him. "You sorely underestimate my brother."</p><p>"No, <em>you </em>ask too much of him! He's <em>human, </em>not a bloody-- <em>machine, </em>Mycroft, he--" He trails off and nearly chokes on the madness of it, wanting to tear his own hair out. How is this happening?! This can't be happening! <em>"This won't help him!"</em></p><p>"Treatment? <em>Treatment </em>won't help him?"</p><p>"Not if he doesn't want it!"</p><p>It's like the final puzzle piece is dropping, at last clicked down into places of fighting it. Because that is the truth, right there, the truth that John has not wanted to acknowledge, and that Mycroft is in defiance of in coming here today.</p><p>Because the truth is, there is no answer to this. Not if it is a solution that Sherlock doesn't want.</p><p>He's wanted to find some way to have Sherlock sit down with a therapist for months, now. A professional of some kind, <em>anyone, </em>and he can feel that awareness in the way Sherlock vibrates behind him, the tense trembling of a string pulled so taut it's about to snap. He can feel how frightened Sherlock is, not just of Mycroft but of John siding with him, and that's enough for John to know he's made mistakes with this. He's made mistakes, pushing too hard on this point, and he's made mistakes talking about it with Mycroft behind Sherlock's back.</p><p>If Sherlock could ever think he'd side with Mycroft against him over this, then it's because John has seriously, <em>seriously </em>fucked up.</p><p>That has to be for later.</p><p>Because he doesn't condone this. He will never condone this.</p><p>"Mycroft," he snaps. He grits his teeth and his heart is pounding so hard it just might burst. "We don't section any bloke with anxiety that thinks therapists are crack pots. It's a traumatising thing, to override a patient's autonomy that severely. It's scary. It's <em>harmful</em>. I'm <em>sure </em>you know enough sodding judges and doctors to force it, but it will only make him worse, and then you'll only have yourself to blame."</p><p>Mycroft's mouth twitches, a small, upset thing. His patience is gone, now, and he looks ready to abort this entire conversation. Clearly, he had expected to have an ally here today, and had not been prepared to instead be the one that was ganged up upon. He does not like it. "Again," he murmurs, "you sorely underestimate Sherlock." As if Sherlock isn't standing behind John, his wrists red and sore and his eyes wide and his whole body trembling because he is <em>furious,</em> and he still can't speak. He is scared and all he needs to banish Mycroft out of the flat is one single word, and he still can't do it. "Rehab worked just fine for him before. He hates it at the time, and complains, but it's for his own good-- surely, you understand th--"</p><p>"You sure? You're <em>sure, </em>Mycroft?" he spits. Now Sherlock isn't the only one shaking. "Because the way I hear it, Sherlock got clean because Lestrade gave him an ultimatum. He got clean because <em>he </em>wanted to. All <em>you </em>did was teach him how to hide it."</p><p>Mycroft blanches, his unshakable composure rocked and shattered just like that. For the first time, there's three people rattled in this room instead of two.</p><p>And John can't stand it.</p><p>He can't stand knowing that he's spent weeks trying to muscle Sherlock into seeing a therapist, that Mycroft likely wouldn't be here at all if John hadn't told him so in asking for his help. He can't stand that he asked for Mycroft's help at all, when he'd known exactly how furious Sherlock would be at him for it but he'd gone and opened his mouth anyway, and now here they are.</p><p>He can't stand knowing that Sherlock Holmes is trembling behind him, enraged and shaking and<em> silent, </em>and there's nothing John can do to fix it.</p><p>Because there is nothing John can do against Mycroft Holmes, the man who has tea with the head of the NHS, golf with a judge, and biscuits with the Queen. Sherlock does not fit the criteria for sectioning, but that's not the question that will be asked. John can throw him out of the flat with that baseball bat right now, and that does not change the fact that Mycroft has the power to take Sherlock away.</p><p>And the disgusting thing is-- John thinks it just might work.</p><p>Sherlock would be furious and scared out of his mind, and he would do <em>anything</em> to get away. To what Mycroft sees as massage and music therapy on a chaise lounge with the ocean and horseback rides just out the bloody window, and to what Sherlock will only see as locked doors and needles and forced therapy where he is not allowed to say <em>no. </em>It will be his own wishes being completely overridden, and having nightmares just like last night's but waking up in an unfamiliar bed with only a nurse and sedative by his side and John a hundred miles away back in London.</p><p>It doesn't matter how posh a prison it is. A prison is still a prison, and he knows that is how Sherlock will see it.</p><p>After what he's already been through?</p><p>Sherlock would not be able to bear it. Sherlock would do <em>anything </em>to get himself free, and if they marked the endgame as him finding his voice? Then that just might be enough. He's smart and resourceful enough to do it. Sherlock just might be able to focus on that, and tear himself apart to stitch the bloody bits back together again with his own two hands, and drag himself over the finish line.</p><p>And it still wouldn't make anything better.</p><p>He could physically recover his voice, yes. But not in tending to the wound that is the reason he lost it in the first place. That wound would still be there, he would still be <em>hurt-- </em>he'd just be able to speak on top of it. And no matter what else happened after it, Sherlock would always remember this, and he'd remember the role John had, unwittingly or not, played in it. He'd have being dragged off and locked away stamped back in his mind as an ever-present threat, should he ever slip again. Should he ever fail. Should he ever not be <em>good enough.</em></p><p>All this would accomplish was ensuring that Sherlock never made the mistake of <em>ever </em>reaching out for help again.</p><p>The thought of Sherlock going through that breaks his heart. But the reason he stands his ground right now is because he knows that it will not help him.</p><p>John may not be able to stop Mycroft. But he will raise <em>all fucking hellfire </em>over this and if he has to go down, then he will go down swinging. Sherlock <em>will know </em>he is on his side.</p><p>Sherlock moves at John's shoulder suddenly, tense and jerky with those wild eyes, but he's trying. He's scared, but he's <em>trying, </em>and John couldn't have loved him more. He doesn't look at John but stares at his brother, and his musician's hands flutter, moving through motions too fast for John to ever have a hope of keeping up.</p><p>He hates that. He hates that it has been three months and he's all but given up at managing anything more than the most basic of conversations, and yet Mycroft's had the time to become entirely fluent in between running the British government and trying to run Sherlock's life. He hates that he's the one that's <em>here </em>with Sherlock, but Mycroft will always read him better than John could ever dream of.</p><p>But Sherlock's fingers fly, too fast for John to discern, and Mycroft pales again. He glares at Sherlock, suddenly angry in his own right, and the hand draped languidly over the armchair tightens into a fist that scratches the leather. "You wouldn't dare, brother mine."</p><p>John doesn't have to be fluent, to understand what Sherlock says back.</p><p>Mycroft glowers and is breathless, milk pale and just as angry as his brother, but beaten. He knows when he is beaten and that is the look on his face as he stands upright in a quick, graceless jerk.</p><p>Whatever threat Sherlock has delivered, whatever blackmail he has in his talkative hands-- it is a big one.</p><p>"The offer stands, then," he murmurs, his voice like ice. He nods once at Sherlock, in a way that is not pleasant at all. "Brother mine. Dr. Watson."</p><p>He makes for the door with a tuneless swing of his umbrella, looking with each step to be a kicked dog with its tail between its legs.</p><p>Whatever Sherlock said to him, John thinks he deserved it. That, and ten times over.</p><p>The door is shut with a sharp, angry rap.</p><p>And just like that, Mycroft, and all the threat he has brought here with him today, is gone.</p><p>John deflates.</p><p>"Sherlock--"</p><p>Sherlock stops him with a hand to his chest, squeezing John's lapels and spun away from him like the force of nature that he is. His strong hands stay there and don't move, they pin John in place as if it is everything in the world that depends on John staying <em>right there</em>, but the genius himself hovers at the window as stock still as a statute.</p><p>John reads what Sherlock can not say, and stays just as silent and still with him. He lets Sherlock hold him, he lets Sherlock stand there, and he waits.</p><p>John hears the footsteps proceeding down the stairs, steady, rhythmic, cold. He hears Mycroft go all the way downstairs and then the swing and click of the door to the street.</p><p>He listens, and finally, he hears the engine starting of the car waiting down on the street. He hears Mycroft go.</p><p>Sherlock does not move. Sherlock holds John in place and stares through the slightest gap in the curtains and does not even breathe.</p><p>The seconds pass.</p><p>John-- has to do something. He has to pull Sherlock out of it. He has to address what just happened, apologise for what he did, make sure Sherlock knows that he would never, <em>ever </em>support what Mycroft tried to do here today. He can't just keep standing here and <em>wait, </em>staring at Sherlock's corded back and the curled wriggle of a scar up from his collar-- he's so cold, he's trying so <em>hard </em>but he's so cold and pale and John can't stand it--</p><p>Sherlock's back curls, a single violent spasm. The ice breaks, and he hunches over onto himself, as if the world itself has been settled over his shoulders all this time and he's finally lost the strength to stand.</p><p>It takes John a moment to realise the noises he's making are because he's crying.</p><p>Silently, utterly, perfectly silent, the only noise at all the hoarse gasps of air sucked deep into his throat. But he's crying.</p><p>Oh, fucking <em>hell.</em></p><p>"Sherlock," he croaks. Oh, god. He did this. He did this to him. "I'm so sorry." He tries to reach for him and Sherlock thrusts a sharp elbow into his chest, throwing him aside to tear free only to just stop in the middle of the room, shuddering from head to foot and covering his face with his hands. He's a cross between livid and terrified and shattered, and it's all his fault.</p><p>It takes the first few moments for it to slide from crying to sobbing. But it's not sobbing so much as great, shuddering gasps, and it's not so much gasps as it is high-pitched wheezes that border on hyperventilation. He reels back and forth on trembling legs and suddenly isn't hiding his face because he has to press a hand to his chest instead, fighting for each breath and then fighting even harder for the next.</p><p>"Sherlock, Sherlock, listen to me--" Sherlock clearly does not want John to see his face so he stays behind him instead, but he speaks loudly, giving him no choice but to hear. "Sherlock. I know this all feels extremely overwhelming but you really, really need to slow down. Mycroft is gone and I'm not going anywhere, not unless you want me to, and Mycroft's <em>gone, </em>Sherlock. I'll kick him down the bloody stairs if he comes back and send Mrs. Hudson at him. <em>Listen to me, </em>you're okay. Nothing bad is going to happen to you but you have got to calm down."</p><p>It takes another minute or two, of Sherlock's great, heaving sobs of breath, John waiting behind him. He can't touch him yet, no matter how badly he wants to. He clenches his fists and keeps himself stock still and he waits, talking him down with only the trembling of his thin back to go off of.</p><p>He never wants to see Mycroft in this flat again, and the next time he shows his face here is not going to be pretty.</p><p>"Sherlock," he says again, when the gasps have calmed to something just this side of sustainable. "I'm <em>sorry. </em>You have every right to be angry with me, please just listen. You can do whatever you want after and I'll probably-- I'll probably deserve it, but <em>please </em>just give me the chance to explain."</p><p>Sherlock says nothing, and he's shaking harder, now. He's so fucking <em>quiet, </em>and he still covers his face as if he's ashamed for John to see it. So John doesn't look. He just wraps his arms around him from behind, burying his face into his back. "I'm sorry. I wanted... I didn't know what to do and I wanted help. <em>I </em>wanted someone to help <em>me-- </em>help you. And I said that to Mycroft and I shouldn't have, but it was never <em>you, </em>Sherlock. Please believe me. I was scared and felt like I was failing you and didn't know what to do but I wanted someone else to fix it for me. I'm still scared because I don't know what to do to help you. But I know it's not this, Sherlock." He squeezes his eyes shut, feels the trembling of Sherlock's back beneath him and the wretched whines of breath. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Please believe me."</p><p>One of Sherlock's shaking hands lunges to clutch over his. It's ice cold and clammy but it hangs on for dear life. He can't say anything, and John can't make him. This will have to be enough.</p><p>He gently nudges Sherlock to turn around, and Sherlock lets him, fumbling on shaking legs and his face still turned desperately away. But he lets John move him, and when his legs give out, John goes down with him.</p><p>"It's okay," he tells him, pressing his face again to his hair. It's not okay. He wants to apologise again, to say he's sorry until he's blue in the face and then keep saying it, but that's not what Sherlock needs or wants so he keeps it out of his mouth. "Sherlock--" He hesitates, because he's not sure if this is a question he wants to risk right now, but in the end, he must. "Will he come back, do you think? Do we need to figure out something to do for when I can't be here?"</p><p>Sherlock sniffs desperately into his hands, all limbs and misery on the floor. His breaths still race, so shallow and stricken they're not getting in any air at all.</p><p>Slowly, deliberately, he lowers a hand again, palming it right over John's heart. He traces a circle with his forefinger, then scratches a line straight through it.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>John nods, rubbing his back. "Okay. Okay."</p><p>The seconds pass in that same suffocating, horrible silence. Sherlock can't stop gasping again, and he can't look at John either, and this on top of never bloody eating or sleeping-- he might well be on his way towards proving Mycroft right, and passing out right there on the floor. Not on John's watch. "Sherlock," he entreats again. He buries his face to his chest, listening to the frantic racing of his heart. "I know I'm probably the last person you want to listen to right now, but love, you're going to faint. Just-- take a breath, Sherlock, with me, just one, there you go. There you go. And another. That's it. Just like that. Brilliant, Sherlock."</p><p>It slowly occurs to John, sitting there together on the floor, with Sherlock too thin and too cold and just <em>fallen apart, </em>not that perhaps this isn't about Mycroft at all. Not entirely. Mycroft is the catalyst that caused this breakdown, but there is so much else that has led to this moment. John's growing helplessness and frustration, sentiments that Sherlock <em>must have </em>picked up on, only to internalise them in the worst ways possible. The helplessness Sherlock must feel entirely on his own. What John has already realised this morning, that it has been <em>four months </em>since Sherlock has been able to express himself to anyone in any meaningful way--</p><p>And all of that has culminated in the very worst way in what Mycroft had tried to do here today.</p><p>Things will be better, John swears to himself, his cheek pressed to Sherlock's chest. He doesn't know how or what it is that he'll do. But he can promise this much. Today will not happen again. Sherlock will never feel this trapped or powerless ever again.</p><p>They will find a way on from today, and it will not be with anything Sherlock's sodding brother has to offer.</p><p>John doesn't know how long they sit there on the floor, Sherlock gasping his breaths back underneath control, his wet, miserable face still tilted away. He's embarrassed of it, ashamed, and there's nothing John can do to fix that without calling attention to it in the first place. So he sits there and lets Sherlock hide his face, and he rubs circles into his back and kissed the exposed skin, occasionally, whenever the moment is presented. Warm, chaste kisses pressed to the slope of his neck, the curve of his shoulder. Slowly, bit by bit, Sherlock calms down.</p><p>It has been long enough that the milk might just have spoiled, when Sherlock staggers himself up to his full height.</p><p>John starts to sit up after him, but Sherlock has not set his sights far away. He paces directly back to his desk and scrawls something, his hand trembling and the script long and loopy, and before John has even gotten all the way up he is back, his eyes red and stricken but piercing. It is Sherlock, and he is back.</p><p>John swallows, and takes the note.</p><p><em>I deleted it, </em>the note says. There is nothing else.</p><p>"You... deleted it?" John tilts his head, trying to understand. "Deleted what?"</p><p>Sherlock sinks to the floor again, cross-legged, across from John. He stares at him hard and draws a singular line across his throat.</p><p>"Deleted... what they did to you?" An impatient, quick shake of his head. "How to speak?" He nods.</p><p>He <em>nods.</em></p><p>A moment passes, wordless understanding suffocating between them. He deleted how to speak. Oh. <em>Oh.</em></p><p>It is as if John has been holding his breath, for a very, very, very long time. For so long that he has forgotten how to breathe at all, and right there, sitting there on the floor together, Sherlock's face blotchy and wet and John's heart cracked in his chest, he has finally let it go.</p><p>This is the first time Sherlock has ever told him about it. Told <em>anyone </em>about it. About <em>anything.</em></p><p>A very big part of John wants to jump for joy. Wants to get up and sing a bloody song and then turn around on Sherlock, to press him for more. <em>Why? </em>he would ask. <em>How? </em>How the hell did you do that? And why? And how do we get it back?</p><p>If Sherlock had wanted to allow any of those questions, he already would've written their answers down.</p><p>Perhaps he's still not ready for them. Perhaps he still doesn't know the answers himself.</p><p>But he's taken a step forward.</p><p>"Okay," he rasps. His voice sounds utterly wrecked and miserable, and he really doesn't know why Sherlock is so shaken at John seeing him cry, because he's not exactly doing much better himself and Sherlock can hear it and see it right there in front of him. "Okay. That's... thank you. Thank you for telling me, Sherlock."</p><p>Sherlock stares back at him, his eyes hard and glassy. He looks like he's teetering on an edge, hanging by just his fingertips and not sure of which way he's about to fall. A broken edge to him softens, somehow, the look on his face wobbling to reveal the smallest of cracks.</p><p>Sod Mycroft. Sod all of this.</p><p>"Come here," John says, "just--" and Sherlock all but collapses back into his arms. He's trembling still, too cold and pale and thin, but he takes long, unsteady breaths against John's neck, and for the first time he can feel Sherlock finally starting to calm down.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. VII: Down the Rabbit Hole</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!! (I think I got to them all! :D)</p><p>Another small chapter today that's a little bit more fillery. The chapters after this one are important, but this one is really to just set up Sherlock's state of mind for the fallout that is to come :) (I proofread, of course, but I've also had a glass of wine so a few extra bits of proofready edits are likely to come!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock settles himself down into his armchair, and looks.</p><p>John sits opposite in His Chair. He sits there, and he looks back at Sherlock, and he waits.</p><p>"Well?" John prods, when it has evidently been quite long enough. "You going to come out?"</p><p>Sherlock lets the silence drag on still, turning his gaze over and over John's form. He looks into the part of his hair, and the soft, red vest, and the loose button at his throat, and the calm, careful way that he sits. How he is ready to spring to life at any moment, with his strong, sure, skilled hands, his lovely, stormy eyes, the way he is at all times a tightly restrained bundle of action and nerves of steel and excitement.</p><p>"John," he says.</p><p>"Yes, Sherlock?"</p><p>"If I deduce you, am I deducing traits that I believe you actually exhibit? Or am I detailing out my own personal wish-fulfillment fantasy?"</p><p>John raises an eyebrow, challenging the truth out of him while saying nothing. The look on his face is warm and smart and perfection personified.</p><p>"Right," Sherlock murmurs, frowning away. "The latter. You are my ideal John, after all."</p><p>"What's the difference?"</p><p>"You're never busy at that insipid surgery." Sherlock stands, sweeping from his chair to kneel next to his violin instead. It's perfectly in tune, the bow with not a hair out of place, and he gives the strings a careful, familiar stroke. "Your musical literacy is also higher by an astounding amount."</p><p>John pauses. He can't see the smile, but he feels it level against his back, all the same. "Are you sure you have the time for a sonata?"</p><p>"Perhaps not." He plucks the strings again, gently, again thumbing along the neck. "An etude?"</p><p>"You're stalling, sweetheart."</p><p>Sherlock sighs deeply, flipping the case back shut. John is right, of course. John is ever and always right. He strokes the heavy case one last time before pushing up to his feet again, swiveling back around to face him. John is watching him, still, warm and smiling and just a little smug, and oh, how Sherlock <em>adores him </em>for it.</p><p>He paces back to the armchair and settles himself down on his knees before it, palming John's face and breathing in the entire space of him. It's addictive and encompassing, and he presses his forehead down to his and wants nothing more than to swallow this all up and keep this feeling memorised and preserved, right there inside of him.</p><p>"John Watson," he murmurs. Filling the space in his ribs, his lungs, his heart with everything that now fills his arms. "You keep me right."</p><p>John's hands lace over his, his fingers wrapping into his hands. They are sturdy and strong, almost burning hot, and Sherlock could melt into those hands. He could melt into his surgeon's hands, and let John stitch him back together, every freakish piece by every freakish piece, and he knows that John would make it right.</p><p>"Thank you," he says again, closing his eyes. "For putting up with me."</p><p>There is nothing for John to say, to this. Nothing that Sherlock would want him to say, at any rate, and so he says nothing. He kisses Sherlock and lets Sherlock kiss him back, and this, <em>this, </em>right <em>here, </em>is what he wants.</p><p>"Sherlock?"</p><p>He inhales again. He keeps his eyes shut, and he inhales his violin, and the skull, and Mrs. Hudson's tea, and Redbeard, and his voice, and John. John, <em>John. </em>He breathes it all in and collects it into the space around his heart where he can feel it and not let it go.</p><p>He opens his eyes.</p><p>John smiles crookedly, his face dim in the dark. "There you are," he jokes. His hair is still drying from his shower, and his dressing gown is that absolutely <em>wretched</em> thing from university that Sherlock really absolutely must find an excuse to burn. "Thought you'd gotten lost in there. Or gone to sleep with your eyes open."</p><p>Is that a real thing? Do people do that? Is that something that people are able to do, or is that yet another idiomatic turn of phrase that makes no sense? He wishes he could ask John, but-- well, he'll google it later. If he remembers. He probably won't google it later.</p><p>All John is wearing is the dreadful dressing gown. He looks at Sherlock, cupping the side of his neck in the way that he does, making sure he is really there, now, really awake. When he finds what he is looking for, he slides closer to kiss him.</p><p>Mind palace John can never compare.</p><p>Because, mind palace John, for all that he is exactly what Sherlock knows that he wants-- <em>John </em>is so much <em>more. </em>Sherlock has never been stellar at knowing what exactly it is that he wants. For many years, the height of that question was answerable in <em>asleep on the floor of a crackhouse, high as a satellite. </em>Sherlock would never in his life have illustrated <em>this </em>as what he wants.</p><p>But it is what he wants.</p><p>It is <em>exactly </em>what he wants.</p><p>John still tastes faintly of soap, which mind palace John never does, and he's not as demanding as mind palace John. Because it's not what he wants, not at all, but it is what he needs. Sherlock needs this, now, the control of it, and John lets him have it without question.</p><p><em>I love you, </em>he pants into his skin. Traces it down his side, feel it on his tongue, <em>I love you, </em>signs it into John's back and hair and scar, <em>I </em>and <em>love</em> and <em>you.</em></p><p>"You're sure you... <em>oh, </em>Sherlock, that's-- <em>fucking </em>incredible. <em>Love." </em>He breathes in sharply and his fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him away just enough to see his eyes in the dark. "You're sure?"</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes back, huffing through his nose. Could it not be more <em>obvious. </em>But John insists on an answer, he always insists that Sherlock answer him, and he slides his hand to his chest to trace a check mark.</p><p>John grins breathlessly back, the hold in his hair releasing. "Making sure." He lets his head thump back and still strokes his hair, the skin warming underneath Sherlock's hands. "Good, because-- <em>Christ, </em>Sherlock--"</p><p>Sherlock swallows the words into his own mouth, and moves back to his shoulder instead.</p><p>John's tries to reciprocate. More than once, he feels John's hands start to move, clutching his shoulders but wanting to touch more. More than once John arcs to lift his head and kiss back. The furthest he gets is half-slipping one hand underneath his waistband, panting and trembling into Sherlock's neck, his grip curling around the inside of his thigh.</p><p>His hand is then yanked back as if burned, and John's next words are a soft, muted sort of apology.</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes again, scratching a second check mark into the nearest limb, and drops down between John's legs.</p><p>John, he suspects, will never be content to just <em>do nothing.</em> That's hardly what he does now, even. He lets Sherlock take the lead but he's always stroking his hair, cradling his arse, desperately, almost violently kissing back. There are so many little <em>ways </em>Sherlock feels the restlessness in him now, from the flush of his cheeks to the insistence with which he keeps checking in, demanding Sherlock deliver this ridiculous new version of a safe word that John really needs more than him. He is as responsive as he knows Sherlock can bear and it's probably not even a fourth of what he wants to do.</p><p>A better, more experienced, more <em>normal </em>person would likely be able to give him exactly what he wants.</p><p>It doesn't matter. This is non-negotiable. Because Sherlock has tried to compromise, that is what <em>normal people do, </em>so he's tried to give John what he knows he wants, what they'd <em>used </em>to have. It does not matter. He can not do it.</p><p>He can not be anything less than in control. And he hates that, because it's not what he <em>wants</em>, but the lines have been drawn and he does not know how to erase them.</p><p>He strokes John from base to tip, watching the turn of his flushed face and oh, <em>oh, </em>it is <em>delightful.</em> The little whimpers he makes, "Oh, god, <em>Sher-fuck!</em>," and his nails claw into Sherlock's shoulders when he uses his tongue instead. He scratches him and it is <em>perfect. </em>John tastes salty and tangy and hot in the back of his throat, and damn it, so <em>good. </em>John's fingers dig into him again, scrabbling from his shoulders to his back to his hair, scratching between expanses of skin and angry scars without regard for the difference, and that, that is perfect too, and when Sherlock sucks one of his legs kicks to tangle in his and this is amazing. It's sweaty and messy and Sherlock's own transport is tempting to fray apart at the seams, and it. is. <em>amazing.</em></p><p>This is not for the reasons John thinks. He is not scared of John. He trusts John. There is not anything or anyone that he could possibly trust more than John Watson, and even with his body hurt the way it is, a newly conditioned response to flinch, his heart palpitating and his skin cold with sweat, he knows John <em><b>would not.</b></em></p><p>He can't give John that control because he can not <em>be</em> not in control. John could make him-- John can make him <em>anything. </em>John can make him sob and scream his name like a vanquished virgin, for god's sake; it's as embarrassing as it is transcendent. John can dissect him into a million pieces and piece him back together whole again with the exacting skill of a surgeon, in a way that was more glorious than the purest cocaine and Sherlock's body will want to scream and-- and he can't. He <em>can't.</em></p><p>So he draws the line before that can ever get off the ground.</p><p>"Sher<em>lock," </em>John whines suddenly, all but ripping a tuft of his hair out. "Sherlock, I'm-- I'm gonna--"</p><p>Sherlock bears down, grasping himself closer to John's hips. He scratches a ragged check mark into his side, nodding awkwardly, and.John shudders and whimpers again. He comes into Sherlock's mouth, again hot and salty and so very, very <em>John</em>, and Sherlock swallows until it stops.</p><p>Because he might not be able to give John anything that is remotely normal, he might not be able to be <em>good enough </em>ever again, but he can and will claw himself through to at least give him what he can.</p><p>When John is done, his skin flushed and hot and overall properly debauched, Sherlock rolls free, working his jaw and clearing his throat. He rolls further onto his side, his back hunched against John's caressing fingers, and inelegantly shoves a hand between his own legs.</p><p>It's annoying. It's so <em>tedious. </em>There is no switch he can flip in his head, to tell himself <em>there's no point; don't do it, </em>and instead hot arousal pools in his stomach until it can not be ignored. More than once he's almost wished he were a woman, which is a dreadfully abnormal thing to think as he strokes his own throbbing penis and silently whines through clenched teeth, but a woman would not have this... <em>problem. </em>This piece of anatomy that demands attention and will not just <em>go away, </em>and he has to lie here awkwardly wanking himself off in bed like a teenage boy because he can't let John do it. He needs control, and that is not control.</p><p>Well. To be thoroughly exact, or quite possibly just pedantic, what he really wishes is that he just weren't like <em>this. </em></p><p>He brokers his own release exceedingly quickly, because the goal is expediency, not pleasure. Orgasm comes with his own slick knuckle and his sleeve sucked between his teeth, where he bites into his own hand so hard there's blood now and will be bruises in the morning. It's awkward, exhausting, and utterly soundless, but he keeps his mouth shut through all of it and only gasps, and in the wake of it he shivers on his side with his own face hot and his heart pounding. John's presence is behind him, a constant and steady weight, his fingers still curled on his back, and it's as addictive as heroin.</p><p>John grasps into Sherlock's shoulders again, long before he's even gotten his breath back. He hauls Sherlock up to him inch by sweaty inch and traps his face in his hands, staring at him in what is so much more, so <em>much more</em> than Sherlock knows what to do with.</p><p>"You," he says," are. <em>Incredible."</em></p><p>He kisses Sherlock's face. His lips, his cheeks, his nose, his hair, <em>"you are fantastic, amazing, beautiful, you gorgeous, gorgeous man," </em>he kisses him until Sherlock is breathless for the second time in as many minutes, and he feels John smile against his cheek and his fingers again curl in his hair. "I love you," John rasps to his ear, and Sherlock signs it back into his chest. He will always sign it back. It is an inescapable, incontrovertible fact of life that Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson.</p><p>It is also an inescapable, incontrovertible fact, that this is not enough.</p><p>There is next to nothing to clean up, Sherlock's own release drying on the sheets that they'll wash in the morning, though he can tell John really just wants to be useful. As if he has not already been of indescribable use. John strokes his hair for another minute, Sherlock still pulled close up to him and settled with his head against his shoulder. He's curled safely in John's arms, feeling their weight and constancy around him, and John refuses to let go, and this is the limit. This is the most of what John wants that Sherlock can still give him.</p><p>It could be enough.</p><p>Sherlock has carefully sectioned off and segregated the devastated rooms in the mind palace. The scorched, blackened corridors have been moved, put to the back and out of the way, and the rooms inside them, with all his recorded information on words and conversation and language? He does not need those rooms. He's finished building alternate entrances now, that allow him to write and to text. That's enough for him.</p><p>He's healthy, too. He's likely healthier than he has ever been since early childhood. He eats regularly, and he sleeps, and though cases still throw a wrench into it all he has a schedule, daily minima, and he tries to stick to it, because Mycroft can go and choke to death on a poisoned cake<em>. </em>He keeps his fingernails cut obsessively short, so he can not scratch himself. He tries to keep a cigarette in hand, so he can't bite his lips or the inside of his cheek. He participates in John's little daily conversations of the mundane and the boring. And John notices all the efforts he's making. John, for some reason, feels the need on the regular to tell him<em> thank you, </em>and that he's<em> proud of him. </em></p><p>Proud. Because he manages to be something approaching a functional human being, that must keep schedules and work to manage what everybody else does as easily as second nature.</p><p>Well. They are normal. He is not. He can do things that none of the idiot masses could ever <em>dream </em>of.</p><p>But John doesn't care about any of that. John, as he has reiterated so strongly, does not want <em>normal. </em>He just wants Sherlock.</p><p>But he surely does not want <em>this </em>Sherlock. And that is precisely the problem.</p><p><em>This </em>Sherlock has nightmares. He flinches, sometimes, because no matter how decisively he burns down those corridors in the palace, they keep coming back, and the flashbacks are of a similar vein in that he has no idea how to eradicate them. He must be <em>handled, </em>and John must be <em>careful. </em>He feels sick and jumpy and ridiculous. There are still crime scenes and clients that he turns down because they are too close to things he does not want to remember, and still so many things that he can no longer do because in every way that he is still amazing, there is now another in which he is defective.</p><p>John moved in because he was remarkable, and stayed because he was amazing. He certainly did not sign up for <em>defective.</em></p><p>He sees it in the low set of John's shoulders, day after day. He sees it when the look on his face when Sherlock is reduced to turning to <em>Sally Donovan </em>at a crime scene, and talking to her because he can't talk to him. He sees it in how tired John is, in his face over Skype and in the over-eager, almost desperate replies to his texts, because that is now the only way they can talk.</p><p>John Watson is a doctor by trade, but a soldier in his blood. He does not need someone to <em>take care of.</em></p><p>Sherlock presses his ear to his chest, sinking deeper fury and despair and the unfairness of it all, the horrible, disgusting <em>unfairness </em>that makes his blood pound. It hurts and he wants to scream and tear things apart, and apologise on his knees and beg John to let this somehow be enough and burn the world to cigarette ash all in the same breath.</p><p>"Sherlock?"</p><p>Sherlock shakes his head against John's skin. He starts to mark another check mark, to assure him that whatever sign he's picked up on, he is still okay. But he's only halfway through when John nudges him onto his side, up enough that they're eye to eye, one hand on Sherlock's face and the other palming a constellation of old cigarette burns in his ribs.</p><p>"I know you're thinking, in there," he says. His nails trail gently along his face, under his eye, through his hair. "Stop it. Whatever you're thinking, it's stupid." He grins again, brushing his lips against his. "Don't look like that; it's true. You're a mad genius, but I'm getting pretty good at telling when you're being a genius, and when you're just mad. And the look on your face right now is when you're usually just mad. So I'm going to tell you again, Sherlock. I love you, and you are the most bloody incredible man on the continent. Insufferable, too, but incredible as well." He tilts his head, his tired grin in the low light turning teasing, and he licks his lips in a way that is just simply <em>unfair. </em>"And if you need me to snog whatever those stupid thoughts are out of your head, I will."</p><p>A hesitant warmth roots in his chest, unfolding just enough to make his mouth want to smile. He blinks back instead, his throat closed, and John gives him another grin that is almost delirious in its level of contentment.</p><p>"Good," he says, matter of fact, and kisses him again anyway, for good measure.</p><p>Then he lets Sherlock slip back down, and a moment later, rewraps his arms around him, one lying over his waist, the other tracing lines between the patterns down his spine. His arms are strong and warm and so, so <em>safe.</em></p><p>Sherlock, after another few moments spent blinking and startled in the silence, grins back into John's chest.</p><p><em>John Watson, </em>he sighs.<em>You keep me right. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>I've only got one chapter left to write, in the rough draft, so updates will hopefully stay at a pretty quick pace! See you next time, for an important one- Sherlock's got some progress to make!</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. XI: A Trip Down Memory Lane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!!</p><p>Now, to take a leap forward in time! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock Holmes is, among other things: a one in a million genius, a graduate chemist, and the only consulting detective in all the world over.</p><p>He is also, currently: a volunteer dog-walker.</p><p>He holds the leash for a great, slobbering, energy-stuffed golden retriever. His name is Bosco, and he takes a particular pleasure in leaping up to press his front paws to his chest and push him down to the floor whenever Sherlock swings by for a visit. He does not now, of course, because he is overly thrilled and excited to be taken for a walk, but Sherlock still keeps a tight hold on the leash, just in case he spies a stranger he wishes to try it out on instead.</p><p>Bosco belongs to one of Sherlock's contacts, a former member of the homeless network who now makes his living as a software engineer, slipping Sherlock tips and what's new on the market on the side. Sherlock doesn't make his way around often, but he does just often enough that Bosco recognises his face. He loves to play and be petted, and Sherlock is helpless but to indulge him.</p><p>Today, he is taking Bosco out for a walk.</p><p>Sherlock is dressed very particularly for the outing. He is missing the trademark coat and hat, and has wriggled instead into the one pair of jeans that he owns, and a slightly itchy, grey jumper knitted for him by Mrs. Hudson. He doesn't want to be recognised today, by reporters or by anyone else, and looking like anything less than himself is as close to undercover as he can currently get.</p><p>Bosco is a well-behaved, eager dog, so much so that it's safe enough to just let his leash go when they get to the park. He bounds off in an instant, tearing over the grass to the nearest other dogs he can find, and Sherlock simply settles himself on the bench to wait.</p><p>This is-- normal. This is what people do, isn't it? He is taking a dog for a walk in the park. That is all this is. This is <em>normal.</em></p><p>He rubs the heel of his hand to his chest, swallowing hard, and has to struggle not to feel sick when his next breath is shallow and an anxious sweat creeps up the back of his neck.</p><p>He has never had a dog, since Redbeard. He's missed it a few times, but it has simply never been an option. Not in boarding school, of course, or university, and after graduating his lifestyle has never allowed it. Mrs. Hudson would let him get one, he's sure of it, but not even Sherlock is self-centered enough to adopt a puppy when at the drop of a hat he might get a case that demands he leave for days at a time or worse. It is just not a sustainable idea.</p><p>But he wonders, sometimes. He thinks about what it might be like, if for these past eleven months, the suffocating silence of the flat had been broken by the panting and skittering paws of a dog.</p><p>He has not missed Redbeard this much in decades.</p><p>Bosco comes bounding back over after a time, tongue lolling and each breath a hot pant. He seems to have decided he wants some more human interaction, and Sherlock slides off the bench just in time to get licked in the face.</p><p><em>You lucky, lucky creature, </em>he thinks, burying his hands into the thick, golden fur. He just looks so <em>happy. </em>This wonderful, lucky Bosco. His only concerns are his next meal, and finding an affectionate enough human to make sure he is petted enough to be satisfied at all times. A simple-minded, loyal, fantastic creature; what must it be like, in their funny little heads? It must not be boring at all. It must be absolutely <em>lovely.</em></p><p>Sherlock is jealous of it, somedays. How much easier his life would've been, if he could just switch so many overactive sects of his brain <em>off.</em></p><p>He scratches Bosco around the ears again, tucking his face against the infectious, comforting heat of his head. Sherlock breathes in, first just one time, then in starts, his tongue suddenly swollen and his throat full. He tries again and nothing comes out. It <em>can't. </em>He can't do it. It's been too long after all; he's let it lie for too many months, he's failed, and now he <em>can't--</em></p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>No.</p><p>Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, his breaths wrenching in through clenched teeth and his heart suddenly pounding in his ears. He digs his hands deeper into the warm fur instead, listening to Bosco pant. He's just slightly dizzy, like the grass underneath his feet has turned to liquid, and the air is hot and humid and cloying, and he has to hang on to Bosco's neck for dear life.</p><p>Sherlock breathes, and forcibly lifts himself back to Francis' office.</p><p>He can do this. There is nobody here that knows him. There is nobody here that is even watching or listening. He is just a man walking a dog. There are no expectations to meet, or requirements for him to fail. It is just him, and Bosco.</p><p>If he can't do this today, there is always tomorrow. If he can't wait until tomorrow, there is always today.</p><p>Bosco breathes heavily. He gives his face another lick.</p><p>"Bosco," Sherlock breathes. "Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy, Bosco?"</p><p>Bosco woofs back, right in his face and earsplitting. He gives his neck and cheek another lick and paws at his front, trying to bear Sherlock down to roll about in the grass with him.</p><p>Sherlock throws his head back, and <em>laughs.</em></p><p>It was low and croaked and pathetic. It was barely more than a leaky whisper, barely audible even to himself. His throat feels strange and he's short of breath and he's not even making any sound now, he's breathing hard and he <em>wants </em>to laugh and maybe he's weeping a little, too, but he can't make a damn sound. He's said ten words after a year of silence, ten innocuous, earth-shatteringly <em>unimportant </em>words, and that is enough to hurtle him past his limits and he can't say anything more.</p><p>He hugs Bosco, and he weeps and laughs, and it's enough.</p><p>
  <em>There is always tomorrow.</em>
</p><hr/><p>In the mornings-- long after John has headed off to work, and Mrs. Hudson has brought up tea, and there is no case, so when it is only Sherlock, and just Sherlock, and will only and just be him for the foreseeable future--</p><p>In the mornings, Sherlock tries.</p><p>He stands before the bathroom mirror and he looks at himself. He looks at the mess his hair turns itself into overnight, and how his eyes are heavy and bloodshot after a night of sleep. He looks at his own long fingers, and sometimes he traces them over the mirror, one by one. Sometimes he measures his own pulse. Sometimes he angrily brushes his teeth and listens to himself breathe.</p><p>He looks at himself in the mirror.</p><p>The scars are all in their final stages of healing, now. John says some will still fade entirely, especially now that he's managed to stop picking at them. There is nothing prominent or disfiguring on his face or neck. His hands are almost entirely unblemished, the nails fully grown back, and his arms are clean, too. The marks on his left one are the worst, scars from reconstructive surgery tracing his forearm and wrist, but they are small and neat, and only really noticeable to someone like John, who has the background to translate what they represent.</p><p>His stomach and chest remain a detailed canvas of charcoaled skin and tell the story of a carcass for a butcher. They'd been mostly shallow cuts, excruciatingly careful not to bleed too deeply or cut a chunk of liver or lung that he'd need to talk, and the patterns that spill between his ribs are as uninspired as they are boring. There's one particular patch of skin that is electric burns doused in acid, and he's loved to catalogue the healing as much as John has hated to acknowledge its existence. His back is much the same, whip marks that intersperse with a galaxy of knife punctures and little hills of cigarette burns and stripes of acid. The acid in particular had been a favorite... low concentrations of weak acid do not dissolve skin or bone, contrary to popular belief. They simply hurt. An incredible amount, when the ideal solution is found. They hurt an even more incredible amount when doused onto already open wounds.</p><p>At one point, stretching around from his abdomen across his right hip to his spine, were once letters, traced by the sharpest point of a knife: <em>T-E-L-L U-S. </em></p><p>Another line, this one marked along his waist, read simply: <em>W-H-E-R-E.</em></p><p>His captors had gotten extremely, dangerously bored, and worked their frustrations out at his silence into his own skin.</p><p>Sherlock has scratched and disfigured those particular scars many, many months ago, rendering the messages illegible with his own nails and cigarettes almost immediately upon escaping from hospital. He is no stranger to pain, and the minor burn of his own cigarettes had barely even registered at all.</p><p>What he will not abide by is being branded like a pig, and he will <em>absolutely </em>not abide by being marked in such a way that John can see it.</p><p>He likes scars, actually.</p><p>Healing tissue is absolutely fascinating, and it's something he's able to experiment with so <em>little-- </em>one of the few things dead tissue from Molly is unable to replicate for him, and it's a bit not good to try and replicate it on his own. Not that John has permitted him to experiment with his own skin. That one has been tragically non-negotiable, he's found. But the observations alone have been incredible and vast, and just splaying his fingers over the new textures of rough, pink scars is good. He's hardly vain about imperfections to his transport, and he knows the very last thing John was ever with him for was his flawless skin.</p><p>He doesn't mind himself, like this. He could do without the pain, but... he can live with the scars.</p><p>Sherlock traces a hand over the mirror again, then his own body, a finger drawn through the former brand that arcs over his waistband. It's rough and uneven, and one of the marks that John insists he thinks will fade entirely, if he leaves it alone. He takes a deep breath and feels the shift of his skin underneath his hands.</p><p><em>I am Sherlock Holmes,</em> he says.</p><p>He tries to say it. He signs the first two words and then mouthes the last, tasting their shape and weight on his tongue. It is just his name. Sherlock Holmes. That is all it is. He has known it since infancy, since he was a baby running outside with Redbeard and stumbling through the difficult syllables, softened into <em>Shhock Homes </em>because names and speech were just boring and dull and none moreso than his own.</p><p><em>I am Sherlock Holmes,</em> he mouths.</p><p>No sound comes out.</p><p>He shuts his eyes again, breaths lurching in his chest.</p><p>He has to fight to stop himself from shattering the glass.</p><hr/><p>"That's <em>great!" </em></p><p>Sherlock scowls deeply into his hands, shoulders hunched. His fingers are wrung so tightly together that it hurts. <em>It was one sentence. Ten words.</em></p><p>Francis raises an eyebrow at him. Somehow, he remains distinctly more impressed by Sherlock's news than by Sherlock's reevaluation of said news, and does not seem inclined to take the time to think it over. "That's ten more words than this time last week, Scott. If you're unsatisfied with it, then you ought to try and use ten more." He pauses for a moment, almost as if he's waiting to see if Sherlock might try it right then, right there. "Have you tried what I asked you to, in the mornings?"</p><p>Sherlock's scowl deepens. He flicks his thoughts back to the mirror, and dust in his throat, and failure coating the glass and his insides like a toxic mould.</p><p>
  <em>Yes. Tried, being the operative word.</em>
</p><p>"Well," he says quietly, setting the sheet aside. "I'm not sure that anyone can ask you to do any better than try."</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes, not bothering to respond to that one. Francis does not possess quite the level of normal idiocy, so common among barely licensed therapists, but he does seem unable to restrain himself from offering useless platitudes from time to time. They all must have their vices, after all.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes does not <em>try. </em></p><p>Francis sets about pouring himself a glass of water, then offering it to Sherlock to do the same. He does, though he's not sure why. He's not going to be doing any talking. Of course. Even as he sits here, imparting his <em>great victory </em>of the year, it's not even a question.</p><p>He still <em>can't talk.</em></p><p>The incredulity of it suddenly hits him and he wants to throw the pen. After <em>everything</em> he has done, he is still reduced to sitting here, scrawling everything that he wants to say on a crinkled legal pad? He sits at his lowest point, actually <em>willingly </em>draping himself out over a shrink's bloody couch, he has been here for <em>months, </em>and yet he still can not hold so much as a normal conversation!</p><p>Francis pauses, watching him with careful, quiet eyes. His own encouraging smile starts to dim. "Something about this frustrates you."</p><p>He huffs through gritted teeth, a growl building in his throat. Almost, <em>almost. </em>But he can't make it come out. He tries, and it doesn't happen, and all he can do is gesture furiously between the two of them again, then to his own throat. It. Doesn't. <em>Work!</em></p><p>"Ah," Francis sighs, the confusion fading. "Well, I can hardly be insulted, Scott-- I'd find a dog easier to talk to than a therapist as well." He allows for another weighty pause, observing Sherlock very closely. "Do you think it might help you, if we had a dog here? Animal therapy is a supported practice, and can be very productive for some patients."</p><p>The idea makes Sherlock's stomach twist, and he shakes his head without hesitation. No. He uses Francis to learn possible strategies to try, and as a textbook to pry details from, and as a source to interrogate, to find out what is normal and what is not. Not-- he will not have a breakthrough in <em>this room.</em></p><p><em>God, </em>no.</p><p>Francis nods again, his eyes contemplative. Sherlock has to still his hand from showing off, to ask about the third anniversary dinner he has planned for tonight.</p><p>"What did John have to say, about what you managed this week?"</p><p>Sherlock thins his mouth, glaring at the space between his knees. The pen taps between his hands, so rapid and angry it's fast approaching a blur.</p><p>"...Have you told John, yet? About what you're trying to do?"</p><p>No. <em>Obviously. </em>He has not.</p><p>"Have you told him that you're seeing a therapist?"</p><p>
  <em>I'm not here to talk about John. Redirect the conversation to possible strategies I can try for my voice.</em>
</p><p>"Well," Francis begins again, very solemn, "as I've said before, the two are closely related. You've already expressed yourself how it is that you lost your voice for him. It only makes sense that he would be a helpful support network now, as you try to recover it."</p><p>
  <em>He has already expended an unreasonable amount of effort in a support capacity. It is unfair to ask him to expend any more.</em>
</p><p>But Francis, once again, only answers by being even more unimpressed than before. He traces a thumb up and down the side of his glass, looking at Sherlock in a way that is very difficult to define. "Then you don't need to ask him for further support. He can be as involved in this, or uninvolved, as you want him to be. But from what you've told me of him, I think he would be very glad to know what you're trying to do."</p><p>He would, of course. He would.</p><p>And Sherlock sees the gaping hole in his logic. He says John has already been put under too much stress, serving as nearly his sole support system for a year? It follows, then, that he should have <em>every reason </em>to tell John that he has expanded his support network. He should've told him months ago, and he should be chomping at the proverbial bit to tell him right now. John would be thrilled, of course, and relieved, and probably stupidly announce again that he's <em>proud of him. </em>It would be a massive weight off his shoulders right then and there.</p><p>He doesn't want to do it.</p><p>He <em>can't.</em></p><p>The words come haltingly, his fingers slow and stiff as he forces them across the page. The shame burns in the back in his throat and he wants to eradicate them from existence. <em>I don't want John to see me fail.</em></p><p>He supposes there are some silver linings, after all. He's not so sure he would've been able to say those words aloud.</p><p>He can do this, as long as it's just in his head. As long as his progress is measured in plans sketched out in his own head, and affections said to a panting dog, and words to a mirror. He can not do this if John is there, too. If John is involved in any way at all, because that means John will be watching him fail.</p><p>He-- he <em>can't. </em>Not <em>now. </em>Not when Sherlock is <em>so close!</em></p><p>He can not bear the idea of having come this far, for so <em>long, </em>for it all to be for nothing. For John to see who he really is, right here at the finish line, and be there when something happens and he can't do it and he fails <em>again.</em></p><p>He can't do that to John, and he couldn't take it to do it to himself.</p><p>He just wants to not be this anymore. He desperately wants to tear together the pieces of who he was a year ago today and present them to John all wrapped up with a bow on top and put an end to this fucking <em>nightmare. </em>He can not keep <em>trying, </em>he can not keep <em>failing, </em>and he especially can not do so when he knows John is there to watch it happen. He could not <em>bear it.</em></p><p>"Scott," Francis says quietly. He hands the first set of papers back, allowing for him to crumple and crush them out of existence, his skin crawling and his stomach sick and on fire. "A relationship can't work if you feel the need to hide what hurts you from your partner. The saying is <em>for better or for worse, </em>is it not? And this is not the first time that you've expressed how worried you are about how John sees you. Your difficulties and anxiety about recovering your voice are not something you can separate that easily from your anxiety concerning John. The two are inextricably linked." He tilts his head, watching Sherlock in a way that is coming to remind him of John. "You need to trust him, Scott."</p><p>Once upon a time, he would've taken offense at the anxiety comment. Now... now, he just doesn't have the energy for it.</p><p>But he already does trust John. He always has.</p><p>Sherlock swallows again, forcing his shoulders to relax and his pounding heart to slow, and drops his face back into his exhausted hands.</p><p>Tomorrow.</p><p>There is always tomorrow.</p><hr/><p>Sherlock sulks, and pouts, and seethes, and in general spends the entire evening hating himself as destructively as he can.</p><p>He delves deep into the palace, stalking down to the destroyed and dangerous wings in a disgusted rage. The corridors are cold and drafty, untouched for months and months, the floors still slick with blood and tar and the walls crumbling, and it is-- <em>filthy. </em>This is <em>his </em>mind palace, and he let these vultures, these insipid collections of foul scum, these <em>vermin </em>defile it. <em>He </em>let this happen. He let them wreck his own palace, and make John's hand tremor.</p><p>Sherlock stands there in the cold, all but abandoned corridor, lit only by the glow of red emergency lights that label this area as condemned. It has looked this way for just under a year, now.</p><p>He bares his teeth in disgust.</p><p>No more.</p><p>He has been attempting renovations for the past several months, but his efforts have been paltry and sad. They are nothing but pathetic, standing here now, looking out at the devastation torn through the halls of his own mind. He has been reluctant and hesitant, because he does not want to do what must be done. The wreckage can not be cleaned. The relevant files must be saved, and he must build a new wing, one that is entirely from scratch. He must clear away the destroyed bits of himself entirely, and use what remains to create the foundations for something new. One that did not endure what he did, and is not scarred and beaten from being burned down from within to protect John.</p><p>He will not abide by this any longer.</p><p>He sends mind palace John away, and Redbeard with him. He gets the vague feeling that he sends the real John away, too, shooing him off to bed with a vague hand wave and the impression that he has a case that needs thinking about. In some ways, it's not even a lie. This is one of the most important cases of his life.</p><p>His own blood smears all over the worst of it, in handprints and wet, fresh splotches. It's still wet, somehow, even all these months later. It's like a beacon, drawing him down to the worst of the damage, and he finds it every time. Disgusting, leaking boxes, files that are out of order, filing cabinets that burn to the touch and are borderline radioactive with filth.</p><p>They are memories.</p><p>Memories that Sherlock has, to his greatest shame, been unable to touch until now. Memories of being hit. Memories of being beaten, cut, whipped, and burned. Memories of electric shocks, stress positions, and nails being torn back. Memories of smelling salts cracked under his nose, sexual assault threatened that his dizzy, cracked skull fades to black before he can see the ending, and screaming so loud he'd torn his own throat raw.</p><p>They had known their time would be limited. So they had not wasted any. They had dedicated every waking moment, every <em>second </em>into tearing Sherlock apart. All to loosen his tongue.</p><p>He hadn't let them win then. He will not let them win now.</p><p>Sherlock can't delete these memories. That had been his first mistake. He has tried. Oh, he has <em>tried.</em> But they are hardwired into his brain. The scars they formed are neurological, <em>biological</em>, synapses that remember and dendrites that branched that not even he or Mycroft can delete at a whim.</p><p>But he can carry these boxes out, one by one, and rebuild the wing he and they have so willfully destroyed. He can properly refile them, in insulated, locked rooms. He can bury them, <em>deep, </em>and put John's wing in between their locked doors and the entrance.</p><p>He can swallow what they did to him. And he <em>will. </em>Because this is what John needs from him, and there is no limit to what he will do for John.</p><p>"Do you think you might need a bit of a break, Sherlock?"</p><p>"Go away," Sherlock snaps, fluttering a hand. "Didn't I send you away? I don't require moral support."</p><p>John watches him with eyes that are almost smug, cross-legged on the floor and utterly, perfectly content with himself. He's wearing the lovely blue vest and black shirt that is the <em>only </em>thing John should ever wear, <em>ever. </em>"Well, your brain seems to know what you need better than you do."</p><p>"Oh, do <em>shut up."</em></p><p>John beams, and Sherlock breathes just a little bit easier.</p><p>
  <em>I can do this.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We can do this.</em>
</p><p>There are hundreds of boxes to be moved. To transfer every one, he must reexamine its contents, and be able to take what he finds there into his own two hands out of the filth and poison that has spread around it. For this, he can not let John help. But John stays anyway, lingering by his side or the walls or with tea in his hands, always there as <em>moral support, </em>and John is right. Something in Sherlock's brain must recognise that he needs him there, because he never once moves to go.</p><p>
  <em>The two of us, against the rest of the world.</em>
</p><p>Bloodstain by smear of filth by crumbling pillar, he clears the disgusting trash from his palace.</p><p>And when it is done--</p><p>Sherlock stands in a barebones, depressing corridor. The rest of the palace at his back is ornate and opulent and luxurious, but what stretches out before him now is tired and ugly. The functions of an exhausted, sleep deprived mind, that did not have it in him to tear open great glass windows, or sunny skylights, or curtains that flutter in warm breezes that are just the same pattern as Baker Street. The doors are heavy, industrial, each one bolted shut and locked three different ways, and the waiting door behind him is ready to be locked shut as well and branded with all the warnings he has to stay that way.</p><p>Like Moriarty's cell, in the deepest basement, he can not delete it. But he can do everything in his power to sequester all that these rooms are, and keep them that way.</p><p>It is plain and normal. It is ugly, and the roughest of a rough start that he can possibly imagine.</p><p>But it is <em>his, </em>again.</p><p>Sherlock swallows wetly, clutching a hand at nothing but air. Everything feels hollow and his legs are suddenly empty underneath him, cold and empty and <em>weak.</em></p><p>"I can't..." He swallows again, working hard to force down whatever <em>this </em>is from his throat. He looks at John beside him and suddenly is nothing but helpless. "I don't want to <em>stop</em>. I want... I..."</p><p>John smiles at him, just the slightest warm, familiar crinkle. He moves forward to slot his fingers around Sherlock's, unfolding his fist, one by one. "There's nothing else here for you to do."</p><p>"It's..."</p><p>
  <em>...done?</em>
</p><p>He stares down at his cold hand, the pattern of John's fingers interlacing with his own. His is shaking now, frozen and powerless, and he sinks to the new floor with a limp <em>thud.</em></p><p>John follows.</p><p>"I'm tired," he mumbles, after a long, long time.</p><p>"I know," John hums. His arms wrap around him in an impossibly warm, desperately inescapable bubble. It is so <em>safe. </em>"You should get out of here. You should <em>sleep. </em>It's healthy, Sherlock; I would know."</p><p>"Shut up. You're me." He closes his eyes through a shudder, reveling in the sensation of John's fingers in his hair, his arms around his shoulders. "I still can't speak."</p><p>There's a long, long silence. John strokes his hair.</p><p>"Probably not, no."</p><p><em>"Why?" </em>He ducks his head, suddenly ragged, inside and out, and he tries to tear at his hair only to have his hands met by John's. "I have just-- all of <em>this--"</em></p><p>"Because, Sherlock. Not everything important about you is in here." John's hands curl around his scalp, threading again through his hair, running through it and down, cupping him close, so close, so <em>very </em>close. His eyes are warm and blue and everything in the world that Sherlock could ever want.</p><p>There's another long silence, and Sherlock soaks it all in.</p><p>Then, John lets his hands drop, and says, "<em>Go, </em>Sherlock."</p><p>He takes a deep breath. Then he does.</p><hr/><p>He staggers out of the palace into the cold of 221B's sitting room. A blanket has been tugged around him, most certainly from John, but the room he comes into is dark and cold and he is absolutely alone.</p><p>Sherlock lurches to his feet, and barely makes it across the room in time to throw up into the sink.</p><p>Everything hurts.</p><p>There is pitifully little in his stomach to get rid of. He finds himself spitting bile and nothing more, making disgusting, involuntary noises in the back of his throat until his empty stomach aches. God <em>damn </em>it.</p><p>Toothpaste and/or mouthwash are both too far away to bother. He drags himself back over to the sofa and collapses back down, huddling underneath the blanket and shivering. He feels empty and scraped hollow, his insides aching as his legs trembled with every step and his throat now throbs.</p><p>It's also early.</p><p>He doesn't know the exact time. Prolonged stretches in the palace will always throw off his internal clock.</p><p>But it's early enough that John is awake.</p><p>John has heard him.</p><p>Sherlock sinks deeper into the blanket, his stomach churning. He buries his face in his knees, but really, he'd rather bury himself into the bloody floor.</p><p>He's pretty sure <em>recovery </em>is not supposed to entail throwing up at eight in the morning after a night spent not-asleep on the sofa.</p><p>Soon enough, the bedroom door creaks open. He listens as John pads out, already dressed for work, by the sound of it. He stops very quickly off in the loo, taking care of his bladder and teeth and hair, and then. There he is.</p><p>He stands there for several moments, wordlessly looking at Sherlock. His eyes are narrowed and searching, examining him for any signs that he might be coming down with something; a fever, chills. Sherlock briefly considers flinging himself back down into the palace just to avoid <em>this.</em></p><p>"Hi," John says, turning towards the kitchen. He's already decided to subsist himself off of toast and tea, this morning. "You want anything?"</p><p>Sherlock shakes his head. The threads of the blanket stretch and bunch between his knees, one in particular that is long and fraying.</p><p>"'Kay. I'll get out of your hair soon-- please try and get something down later, though. You skipped dinner last night, too."</p><p>He can not stand anything about this.</p><p>John is sitting there now at the clearest spot at the table, a piece of toast in his hands as he waits for the kettle to boil. He can't see Sherlock very well, from that position. Just out of the corner of his eye, and if Sherlock wriggles properly down beneath the blanket, then he can't see his face.</p><p>He can do it.</p><p>Now, if there is ever to be a moment... <em>now </em>is the bloody time.</p><p>He sucks in a breath through his nose.</p><p><em>I will, </em>he could say. Or <em>yes, John. </em></p><p>
  <em>No need for a Skype call today.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We've got a case!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tea, John!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You put too much sugar in your tea. You'll hate it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Stay home today.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Come over here, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.</em>
</p><p>He opens his mouth, and--</p><p>And--!</p><p>...</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>There is <em>nothing!</em></p><p>A scream builds in his chest until he can feel it tearing at the inside of his own lungs.</p><p>John gets ready unbearably quickly; he is, as ever, nothing if not efficient. He pulls on his coat and leaves the kettle in the sink in a clatter, pulling together his things, and all Sherlock wants to do is say <em>don't go. </em>He can feel the pressure in his throat, a dam that allows air but swells to suffocate him whenever he tries for anything else. <em>Don't go. John. I'm so </em><em><b>close. JOHN.</b></em></p><p>John doesn't hear him, of course. John is not telepathic. Though it would be incredibly convenient if he were.</p><p>But John does hesitate, just on his way out the door.</p><p>"I'm worried about you, you know." He pauses at the arm of the couch, his fingers flexing and digging into the arm of it. "I can tell when something's wrong. I'm not stupid, Sherlock." He waits for a moment, and when Sherlock does not respond, gently tugs his hand free from where it's clawing into the blanket. "You can tell me. Even if you think I can't help. Even if there really isn't anything I can do. You scare the hell out of me when you try and do things alone."</p><p>John waits again. Sherlock has no idea what he's meant to say, if there is even anything for him to say at all. He keeps his mouth shut and continues picking at the blanket, and John still looks at him. Waits.</p><p>Sherlock nods.</p><p>The ice breaks, and the hand around his fingers squeezes. "Good. Eat something." He kisses his hair, then backtracks before Sherlock is able to worm himself upright enough to kiss him back.</p><p>"And brush your teeth!" John shouts back, already out the door, and is then jogging down to the street without another look back.</p><p>Well. All right, then.</p><p>His face heats up, burning uncomfortably hot even as he buries it back into the tired blanket dragged loosely around his knees. Sherlock digs his fingers into it as well, carefully isolating a single loose thread to spend the rest of his day unraveling.</p><p>Minutes pass.</p><p>"I am Sherlock Holmes," he croaks.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>Next chapter is another important one, where we take a long trip back to the very beginning...</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. I: A Moment of Silence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!!</p><p>I've now completely finished the rough draft, so barring unforeseen complications, everything should go well from here on out. Thanks for the support along the way &lt;3</p><p>And now- back to the very beginning! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The tests don't find anything.</p><p>They start with the standard, and slowly progress to the more and more unlikely. The first outside consultant to be called in is an ear, nose, and throat physician that John rather suspects works in the day at Buckingham Palace, and she wastes no time at all in palpitating Sherlock's pale neck and looking down his throat.</p><p>Shockingly, there is no mysterious swollen tonsil that only the Queen's physician had been able to see.</p><p>They slate him down for head scans and neurology interviews next, scans to be evaluated by an increasingly overqualified panel of neurologists. John, if anyone's asking, is of the opinion that the head scans should've been the first step. It's not only spoken word. Sherlock can't <em>write, </em>either. He can not write, or type-- he can barely shake or nod his head. That is not a physical problem in his throat. That suggests-- it suggests--</p><p>It suggests brain damage.</p><p>As much as it makes him ill to think it.</p><p>But the interviews are disastrous, and the head scans reveal next to nothing. Sherlock may be unwilling to communicate, but his brain is still working, behind his enigmatic eyes, and the deductions are still happening. The second the doctor hands him a collection of plastic children's blocks, to see if he might've lost shape recognition overnight and try to force a square-shaped peg into a circular block, Sherlock just about has a fit. A violent, spitting, mad fit of a tantrum. John has to desperately play to two sides at once, pleading with Sherlock to stop, stop, <em>stop,</em> while at the same time trying to convince his attending he doesn't need to add <em>emotional instability </em>to his chart because this is Sherlock's baseline and you just talked to him like he's a five year old, you fucking <em>twat. </em>It takes him fifteen minutes to convince a trembling, furious Sherlock to cooperate.</p><p>When he finally does agree to participate, he passes every assessment with flying colors. Every single test that does not require Sherlock to speak or write, he does so in full form, with hard, angry eyes, and hands that twitch like he wants to snap the offered pen in half.</p><p>It's as much a relief as it makes John feel sick to his stomach.</p><p>And then there are the head scans, which Sherlock only has to lay still and shut up for, but just because they're easier to kick off doesn't mean they get anywhere. They reveal <em>nothing, </em>and what's worse is that they reveal nothing in the most stubbornly unhelpful of ways. They confirm that there is at least no blocked nerve or swelling contusion or TBI, but that just means they have to look deeper, and that's when they run into a brick wall. They have him in an fMRI and run him through the standard battery of questions, mapping cortical activity, but the map is utterly useless when there's nothing to compare it to.</p><p>The consultants have never seen brain activity that looks like Sherlock's before. They can't tell the difference between abnormalities in the scans because he's a cracking mad genius, and abnormalities because something is <em>wrong.</em></p><p>"For what it's worth," the lead of the team says to John, "the Broca's area seemed to be as active as I'd expect. It's hard to gauge it, since he refused to participate in the parts of the exam where he was meant to speak. But..."</p><p>The Broca's area is associated with speech production. It has been their first guess for a culprit, in why Sherlock is suddenly unable to speak.</p><p>It's not worth much at all.</p><p>When they exhaust the information they can get out of head scans, they move on to the even more rare and ludicrous. They're running the gauntlet, on anything at all that might cause aphasia as a side-effect, plausible or not, but-- it's <em>not </em>aphasia. John is more sure of it by the day. Sherlock is not simply unable to express language. He remains unwilling to try, and he has refused to try it ever since the first day that he woke up. He won't so much as open his mouth, and he won't pick up the pen or paper when it's offered, and he refuses to even try to find a way to express what is wrong.</p><p>If it were something physical, if Sherlock <em>wanted </em>to communicate, but could not, then he would still be trying. He would be furious and frightened and frustrated, and it would be coming out. It's <em>not.</em></p><p>He can't speak, because he doesn't want to.</p><p>Sherlock is not his patient, so at first, John keeps his mouth shut about it. After all, the more data they have, the better, and he does understand the team's reluctance to accept such a grey diagnosis. Some part of him very much wants for it to be a physical problem, too. Something biological, that he can read about in his textbooks from school, that has a black and white cause and therefore a black and white solution. Anything at all, other than just <em>Sherlock doesn't want to speak.</em></p><p>When his attending tries to schedule him next for a lumbar puncture to search for another possible culprit, a very painful procedure that carries a small but genuine risk of paralysis, John reverses course, and puts his foot down.</p><p>"<em>Enough!" </em>he snaps, and he snaps it to Mycroft, too. Mycroft, who he <em>knows </em>has been leading this entire damn charge. "That is <em>enough!" </em>He leads the way right out of the room and from where Sherlock sits silently, cold-eyed but increasingly ashen-faced as his physician had described the risks of what he was ordering Sherlock to sign off to. "Sherlock Holmes is one of the most intelligent, resourceful people on this bloody <em>continent. </em>If there is something wrong with him, I can promise he'll know it before we spend another million trying to find it, and he'll make absolutely sure we know about it while at the same time making you feel like the biggest idiot for not seeing it first. Until that day comes, you need to accept the diagnosis that he's trying to tell you, and <em>leave. him. alone!"</em></p><p>He slams the door back to Sherlock's room so loud it rattles on the hinges. His heart is pounding so hard he can barely see and his breaths hiss out of control, a pressure crushing down on his chest like the weight of an elephant. He still wants to break something.</p><p>And Sherlock--</p><p>Sherlock still just sits there. His mouth has flattened to a thin line and he looks at John with unreadable, shadowed eyes. He's wary. He's heard John's outburst, of course, but he sees everything that's been brewing underneath it, too, and now he doesn't know what's going to happen next. He looks at him, at <em>John, </em>and he's <em>wary.</em></p><p>John looks back at him, and it feel like his heart is shattering all over again.</p><p>He's so pale and cold. He fucking looks cold from across the room, and so <em>thin-- </em>he only eats enough to keep them from putting the feeding tube back in, and that's not enough. It's not even close. The bruises are fading but somehow that makes him look even worse, grey-scale and washed out, the only spots of color the reds and browns underneath bandages. Even his striking eyes look grey, today.</p><p>"Git," John mutters. He has to fight it past the lump in his throat and it comes out weak and watery, the effect utterly ruined. Sherlock looks away. "You knew all the tests they were doing were a waste of time, didn't you? And you let them make fools of themselves anyway. Bet you enjoyed the spotlight, at least?"</p><p>Sherlock still won't look at him. He's unnaturally still about it, hands utterly motionless in his lap. John put two and two together a long time ago that it hurts him too much to fidget them the way he normally wants to.</p><p>There's something about that, that makes John <em>angrier</em> than anything else.</p><p>It's what Sherlock always does. He <em>fidgets. </em>It's a nervous habit to work off restless energy but it's also just who he is. He taps his feet and twitches his fingers and strokes his thumbs; Sherlock Holmes does not <em>sit still. </em>Absolutely nothing about Sherlock is someone that can sit still.</p><p>And these <em>bastards </em>even took that from him.</p><p>John swallows, forcing his knees to bend as he sits himself back down at his side, not quite able to meet his eyes. He still wants to hit something. But that won't accomplish anything, nothing at all, so he is reduced down to simply twiddling his thumbs, all because Sherlock can't.</p><p>And it's just-- the silence is too much. He can't do this. He can't.</p><p>"Listen, Sherlock--" He swallows again, reaching for his arm. His arm that is bandaged and hurt, too, but it is safer than his hands, which just have no safe place to touch. "I'm sorry I let it get this--"</p><p>Sherlock flinches.</p><p>Sherlock--<em>flinches.</em></p><p>Away from <em>John.</em></p><p>He still won't look at him, his face turned severely away and now about as open as a brick wall. He's ice cold and angry, his lips pressed together and his shoulders gone heartbreakingly tense; he's furious again, as furious as he was at the terrible neuropsychologist, but now he's not furious at anyone but himself. It's right there on his face-- Sherlock isn't mad at John. Or maybe he is, a little, but that's not the bulk of it. He's frustrated and upset and above all else, he's mad at himself.</p><p>His stomach goes hollow and empty. It feels like he's imploding from the inside out, a crushing emptiness opened inside him that just <em>aches. </em></p><p>"...sorry," John repeats, the words desperately distant and tiny, echoing in his ears as if said from a hundred miles away.</p><p>This time, he keeps his hands to himself.</p><hr/><p>John is nearly thirty-five years old, and has lived through war, being shot, an alcoholic sister, and a drunk shithead of a father.</p><p>The weeks they spend piecing Sherlock's body back together are the worst of John's life. There is no comparison, to what it feels like to know the person he loves more than anything in the world is hurt this badly, and there is <em>nothing </em>John can do to fix it.</p><hr/><p>The first time John sees him, it is tantamount to shell shock.</p><p>They are in intensive care. In ICU, there are urgencies that come in front of patient privacy, so Sherlock is naked, dressed only in a sheet and medical equipment. He has so much stuck to him he is more identifiable as a practice dummy than a human being, and for a moment it's almost easier to think of it all just like that. This is not Sherlock at all. The black and blue patterns on his stomach, old bruises underneath new that splatter around the chest tube, visibly draining blood from inside him. The lump under the sheet that is a brace for his right knee. The temporary splint on his left arm, supported on a pillow and immobilising the badly broken limb inside plastic and velcro straps. There's another surgery tentatively scheduled in a few days, for when he's stronger; the insertion of stabilising plates and screws, to hold the bones in place as he heals. They'll have to see how it looks at the end, to know if they'll take the metal back out or not.</p><p>Which arm is more important, for the violin? Which one would be hurt worse, by something like this? How hard is it going to be for him to pick it up again once the cast finally comes off?</p><p>It doesn't even look like Sherlock. Not really. Everything familiar about him is underneath wet gauze or machines or hurt. The black stitches that twine through his skin, fucking <em>everywhere. </em>Even his face is-- nausea tightens in John's stomach and he shoves back a moan. Even his beautiful <em>face. </em>It's swollen and red, dotted with sweat with his brilliant eyes shut. They had to shave a patch of his ridiculous hair and the rest is limp and matted, curls twisted together into knots that have solidified with old crusts of blood.</p><p>They're still monitoring the pressure inside his skull. If Sherlock can't keep it under control, they're going to have to start drilling holes in him.</p><p>Jesus <em>Christ.</em></p><p>Sherlock has been missing for one week. That's it. That's all. Just-- just the one.</p><p>And he comes back to John looking as if someone's driven a fucking semi-truck through him.</p><p>John ducks his head back into his hands, suddenly dizzy, and he sits there in this dreadful plastic chair and fights for each breath, and he doesn't want to do this. He can't sit there and look at Sherlock's devastated body and recognise every single thing that's wrong with him. Every single invasive, painful thing this hospital has done to keep him alive. Every single hurt done to him that he knows the fucking textbook on, so he knows how long the recovery is going to take. How much permanent damage there is likely to be. How much it's going to <em>hurt.</em></p><p>The heart monitor screams in his ear, too fast and arrhythmic. Each peal drives into him and makes it feel like rats are scratching at the inside of his skull.</p><p>He doesn't want to be here, because he wants to be out there, instead.</p><p>He wants to find every single person responsible in any way for the devastated body spread out before him, his genius brain turned off by sedatives and his amazing eyes heavy in a morphine-supported sleep, and he wants to tear. them. <em>apart. </em></p><p>John isn't sure how long he sits there for. It's certainly longer than he's supposed to be allowed, because a nurse comes in twice, noting down Sherlock's dreadful vitals and the second time cleaning at the oozing stitches on his less-devastated arm. Mycroft's influence, then. Mycroft is the reason why John is <em>allowed</em> to sit here with Sherlock in ICU, his angry pulse fluttering underneath gauze and John's thumb, and watch him sleep through enough sedation to knock out a bull.</p><p>He ducks his head into his fists, kneading heavily at his temples. The weight on his chest is inescapable and crushing but he fights through it, one breath after another.</p><p>"I'll be back soon," he murmurs. He can't-- he can't look at Sherlock. It hurts too much to do it so he talks to his hands instead, feeling absolutely <em>awful. </em>"Stay... just stay put, yeah? Don't go running off into any more trouble."</p><p>Sherlock breathes noisily, the quiet hiss of supplemental oxygen filling John's ears. His heavy eyelids don't even flicker.</p><p>John gets to his feet, and exits the room as noiselessly as he can.</p><p>Mycroft is still in the corridor, of course. Just far enough down that he sits near the lift rather than the ICU itself, his phone out as he taps away. Probably ordering the military itself out to go track down who's done this to Sherlock.</p><p>John would be grateful for it, if not for the rage steadily building behind his eyes that's so violent he can barely even think.</p><p>"John?" Mycroft says upon approach, his eyes widening. He starts to put his phone away, even having the grace to look <em>worried, </em>god damn him. "Is something wrong with--"</p><p>"No. He's f-" He chokes on the word <em>fine, </em>the hot fury swelling inside him again. No. Sherlock is not fine. He is not remotely fine, and he is not going to be fine for a very long time. "His condition is unchanged. No. I wanted to talk to you for a moment, Mycroft."</p><p>He thinks about that chart, a mile long in Sherlock's room and with months of pages still to be added.</p><p>He thinks about Sherlock's slack, all but unrecognisable face.</p><p>And he thinks about the monotonous phone call he got just this afternoon, that had summoned him out to this hospital.</p><p>"Sherlock's been here for hours," he says flatly. "Hasn't he."</p><p>Mycroft's pale face pinches. He doesn't answer, just sits there and looks very, very tired. Unfortunately for him, John's patience has been left in the bin somewhere about this time last week.</p><p>"I looked at his chart. He was in surgery for ten hours, Mycroft. Which means you found him even before that. He's been here since last night. But for some reason, I only got the call--" He makes a dramatic show of checking his watch, something close to absolute fury building in his chest, "<em>this afternoon."</em></p><p>"...Ah." He looks back to his phone, flicking again through the messages in a bad show at apathy. The turmoil underneath shows in the increasing pallor of his face and the clench of his fist around his phone. "Yes. Well. You understand, John, it took--"</p><p>"Give me the truth, or you'll be eating that phone for breakfast."</p><p>Mycroft sits back with a heavy sigh, interlacing his fingers over his stomach. He does, at least, put that damn phone away. But he still doesn't, or can't, look John in the eye. "Sherlock," he starts, then shakes his head, and starts again. He frowns deeply, his gaze turning off down the corridor, all the way to his little brother's room. "As I have previously explained to you, it's extremely inconvenient to have you present on missions involving my brother. Invariably, that means bullets will be spent that I have to explain, because you are not a government agent. And then, the last thing that will help Sherlock is you, being written up or arrested for--"</p><p>"This is not answering why Sherlock has been here for <em>half a day </em>before you bothered to tell me."</p><p>He clasps his hands together over his mouth, perilously, almost painfully close to Sherlock's <em>thinking pose. </em>He's very pale now and he just <em>won't </em>look at John.</p><p>Mycroft does love Sherlock. That much is clear, purely from the quietly distressed look on his face alone. He may have absolutely no idea how to show it, and he may drive John up the wall with his mere existence, and Sherlock might spit fire and vitriol at him from the moment that he wakes up, but Mycroft does love Sherlock. Being here, and seeing him like this, is no easier for him than it is for John.</p><p>Seeing that is just about the only thing that allows John to hold his tongue, and stop himself from hauling the sly, procrastinating twat up the wall.</p><p>"You understand the condition he was in," Mycroft says finally. "I didn't see the sense in bringing you here merely to see you pace holes into the waiting room floor for the next ten hours, John."</p><p>There's more. He knows there's more. Mycroft Holmes is not a considerate person, and he has certainly <em>never </em>been considerate of <em>John</em>. He waits for the rest, a rock sitting in his chest like a lead weight.</p><p>"...When we found him," Mycroft murmurs. He glances at John once, a pointed, needling look, and then down the corridor again, his grim expression softening as he looks towards his little brother's room. His hands clench together, and he looks almost ill. "You say that you read his chart, John? I'm sure that you do not need me to explain to you the condition he was in. You're a doctor. You can fill in the dots."</p><p>"What exactly are you getting at, Mycroft?"</p><p>The seconds tick by. The noises of the hospital fill the silence, footsteps and files and the distant clicks and beeps of monitors, but between him and Mycroft there is nothing but a dead, sickening quiet. Mycroft sits there, looking down the corridor after his brother, and John waits, hot anger building in his chest and the urge to scream along with it.</p><p>"I thought that it might perhaps be... cruel. To call you here, when there were still so many hours left to go, and to give you that hope. Not when there was no guarantee that he was going to survive."</p><p>It's worse.</p><p>It's worse.</p><p>It's so much worse than anything John would've ever pieced together on his own.</p><p>John turns away to cover his mouth, swallowing desperately at bile. His leg aches and he has to pace before it buckles underneath him. This is so much worse. It's not because Mycroft doesn't take him seriously, it's not because Mycroft thinks he couldn't handle it, not because Mycroft is trying to manage so much else at any one moment that he simply forgot.</p><p>John again thinks about Sherlock's chart that he has spent so <em>long </em>reading in there, reading to the tune of Sherlock's electronic heartbeats in his ears. He is a doctor, and a bloody good one at that. He knows how close Sherlock cut it. How close any number of the things they did to him could've done it. He knows exactly how close this came to being it. To being <em>the end. </em></p><p>John clenches his fists and balances himself against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut as he fights down the pounding in his head. This will not help anyone. Having a screaming match with Mycroft or getting himself too worked up to calm down; neither of those things will accomplish the only thing that he wants, which is to be with Sherlock. No matter how much he wants to end this in giving Mycroft the dressing down of a lifetime and wringing his idiot genius brain out like a dish towel-- he needs to be with Sherlock more.</p><p>"And if Sherlock had died?" he snaps, very, very quietly. He stares at the ugly, chipped tile under his hands, because if he looks at Mycroft right now, there's a very good chance this will end in a fist fight. That would not be a very long or difficult fight. "How do you think that conversation would've gone? When I found out that not only was Sherlock dead, but <em>you </em>had robbed me of the chance to say goodbye?"</p><p>Mycroft does not reply. He sits behind John like the smug, smarmy, sure-of-himself <em>arsehole </em>that he is, and he doesn't say a word.</p><p>John closes his eyes, and counts to five.</p><p>He spins back around, grief stinging in the back of his throat and the rest of him flooded with a sick, black rage. It feels as if his heart weighs a thousand kilograms and with every second the pressure suffocating him ticks up another notch. "You will not <em>ever," </em>he hisses, "do this to me or Sherlock again."</p><p>Then he turns back on his heel, and walks back to Sherlock's room without another word.</p><p>"Sorry," he murmurs, pulling the chair closer to the bed. Part of him wants to just give in and cry, but he can't do that. This is not about him, this is about Sherlock, and he swallows the grief back through sheer force of will alone. If Sherlock can hear him, if there is even the slightest chance that Sherlock can hear him right now, then John is not going to make him lie there and listen to him cry. "Had to go tell your brother off for something. Don't worry-- I think he learned his lesson."</p><p>His eyelids still don't even flutter. His vitals look exactly the same as before.</p><p>"Can you hear me, Sherlock? It's me. It's John." He watches his face, very, very closely, but there's not a single twitch. John hesitates, hand hovering as he searches for the safest place to touch. In the end, he settles on nudging the backs of his fingers to one narrow shoulder. "It's okay if you can't say so. You're on some pretty heavy drugs. But I know you, yeah? I bet there's something in there that's awake. You're tolerant to everything under the sun."</p><p>Sherlock's heartbeats continue to spell out the silence. It's crushing.</p><p>"I'm sorry if you are awake," he whispers, very close to his ear. "It's probably pretty scary, and I'm sure it hurts a lot, but we can't give you anything more. Just try and bear with us for now, love. All right? We're looking after you and it's all going to be okay."</p><p>Still, there in no response. There is no response at all.</p><p>John keeps talking anyway. He explains to Sherlock where he is, what's happening to him, and the smaller, easier details of what is going on. He reads off the names of all the medications that are dripping in to him right at this moment, and recites every last detail that he can remember about them all. He reads his chart, and he describes the scans that are in the file, and the surgeries they did to him, and what every piece of his vitals means.</p><p>And when he runs out of those words, he finds new ones. He puts down Sherlock's chart and reads from his phone instead. He reads cases from the blog, and comments that have come in over the last week worried about him and wishing him well. He reads the most recent stream of text messages aloud where Sherlock whinged, tantrumed, and demanded that John get milk. He keeps reading until his voice is hoarse and even then he keeps on going, leaning over with his head propped up just by Sherlock's ear.</p><p>He keeps going because he knows if Sherlock <em>is </em>awake, and he <em>can</em> hear him, the only thing more frightening than the hell he is currently enduring would be if John's voice vanished to let him endure it alone.</p><hr/><p>"Are they dead?"</p><p>Mycroft looks at John over the knot of his fingers, his eyes flat and hollow. "I beg your pardon?"</p><p>"You know what I mean."</p><p>His gaze lowers back down to his brother's body. The look on his face is-- indescribable.</p><p>"Four are dead," he murmurs at length. He splays one hand out along the sheets, his fingertips trailing very close to one still, cold arm. "My agents were under orders to take them alive, but two were killed in the resultant shootout, and the two others that were present in their approach committed suicide with cyanide pills. They appear to have had military training. It is unfortunate, but--"</p><p>"And the others?"</p><p>Silence spreads again. There is nothing but electronic heartbeats, the soft hiss of oxygen, and the even softer drip of medication.</p><p>John does not give a shit about this case, he does not give a shit about cyanide pills, he does not give a shit about Mycroft's work.</p><p>He just wants to know that the people who did this to Sherlock are <em>gone.</em></p><p>"Evidence currently suggests there are two others," Mycroft admits at last. "They were not present in our raid."</p><p>His own heart beat screams in his ears, and suddenly, all he can see is red.</p><p>"Then--"</p><p>"There is no need to worry, John." He folds his hands back together, sitting in his chair stiff and all but unnaturally straight. "Sherlock is under round the clock security, and my agents are looking for them. Nobody will touch him."</p><p>He doesn't have to finish his thoughts aloud.</p><p>Nobody who has had any hand in putting Sherlock where he is now is going to live all that much longer.</p><p>That night, John still goes back home to retrieve his gun.</p><hr/><p>The first time Sherlock opens his eyes, it barely counts.</p><p>John is bleary and so tired, thumbing through literature in his lap that examines the addictive potential of the painkiller that Sherlock is on, a new medication, something that smells like Mycroft. He's exhausted, and sets his phone down to go for a cup of water, and-- Sherlock's awake. <em>Sherlock's awake.</em></p><p>"Sherlock!" he cries. He bolts forwards to the edge of his seat and nearly drops his phone on the floor, curling his fingers around the cold line of his arm instead. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"</p><p>His catlike eyes are half-lidded and glazed, silvery grey that rove sightlessly across the ceiling. They're watering easily, not tears but a simple biological reaction to being shut for so long and drugged so heavily, and John moves to thumb one trail away. His face is still freezing.</p><p>"Sherlock?"</p><p>Slowly, his eyes drift over John. They're barely cognizant, and John isn't sure if he's being heard at all.</p><p>"You're okay," he swears, for lack of anything else to say. He traces his fingers gently down his cheek, trying to give him something to focus on. "It's all going to be okay, Sherlock. You're safe here. You're so safe. Do you hear me?"</p><p>Another few moments pass in anguishing silence. Sherlock's overbright eyes search sleepily over John, dilated and glassy with the stream of narcotics, and for just a heartbeat they latch onto his.</p><p>His mouth moves soundlessly, cracked lips drifting through motions that are too slow and sluggish for him to ever translate.</p><p>"Thirsty?" he tries. "You're thirsty?"</p><p>His mouth moves again. John takes this as a yes and moves quickly, snatching up a cup of ice chips to push even closer, very gently nudging one at his mouth. "Sorry," he murmurs, "no liquids just yet. You don't even know what I'm saying, do you, love? You're high, god. It's okay. Let us take care of you, Sherlock. It's going to be okay."</p><p>The cold ice chips help rouse him a little more as John continues. He doubts it matters all that much what exactly he's saying and instead focuses on keeping his voice calm and soothing. Even if Sherlock can't understand what he's saying, and he probably can't, he will at least hear and understand the tone of his voice, and know that there's nothing to be afraid of. And as he goes on, the words and the ice chips and thumb stroking his jaw, they finally earn some tiny shifts and increased awareness in his eyes. They lock closer onto John, widening in wet and shiny bright blue. His mouth moves again, this time spelling out his name. <em>John.</em></p><p>"Yes. Yes, it's me. It's me, Sherlock."</p><p>His mouth keeps moving, trying to say something else, but nothing comes out. John isn't worried-- his throat must be bone dry, and he's obviously exhausted, and drugged to the gills, and stuck on an emotional rollercoaster with no way to get off. John tries to translate, but Sherlock is so out of it it's slow going.</p><p>"Water? No, Sherlock, you can't yet. You're... no?"</p><p>Sherlock rasps another hollow gasp, panting as if he's just out of breath, just hanging on the edge. His shoulder flexes under John's hand.</p><p>"Do you want to know about the case?"</p><p>He rolls his head, just barely. The fall of his dark hair against the pillow makes him look frighteningly pale, and John rubs his cold shoulder a little, trying to warm him. Good. John doesn't want to talk about the case, either.</p><p>"Do you-- want to know how you're doing? Your condition?" He squeezes his arm again, trying to hold his gaze. "You're going to be all right, Sherlock."</p><p>But Sherlock shakes his head again and now he even manages to look impatient. <em>Stupid, John, </em>his eyes seem to be saying, <em>obvious,</em> and he rasps in another breath, trying to nudge up against John's hand.</p><p><em>I'm sorry, </em>John thinks helplessly, crumbling back. He clenches his hands in his lap and feels like nothing more than a useless, ineffectual lump. <em>I don't know what you want.</em></p><p>Sherlock looks-- scared. Not for himself. He's not sure if Sherlock has ever been scared <em>for himself </em>in his life. He's not scared of the men who did this to him, he's not scared for himself, he's...</p><p>Scared for <em>John?</em></p><p>That's what it is, he realises, and it hits like a punch to the gut. He's never seen Sherlock afraid for himself before, but he <em>has</em> seen him scared for John. And that's what this is.</p><p>"Do-- do you--..." John stops and wets his mouth, utterly unsure of what to say. He can hardly ask <em>do you want a hug. </em>Maybe Sherlock doesn't even know himself, what it is that he wants.</p><p>John takes in a breath, and carefully, very carefully, wraps his arm around Sherlock without asking him anything more.</p><p>"It's okay," he promises by his ear, his fingers wrapping in his limp hair. "We're both okay, Sherlock. It's going to be okay."</p><p>Sherlock still doesn't answer back in words. He doesn't even try. But he lets John hold him and in a moment he presses his face against his shoulder, like a kitten wanting a cuddle. It's about all the strength that he has to move and it feels like being stabbed in the stomach, but Sherlock hides into his arm and his eyes are watering into his sleeve and in that moment, John wants nothing more than to crawl onto the narrow bed with him, wrap him in his arms, and never let him go again.</p><hr/><p>Mycroft sticks his meddling fingers back deep into the entire unfolding mess, and four days after his admittance, Sherlock is very carefully bundled into a nest of blankets, sedated heavier and strapped to a gurney, and transferred to a new hospital.</p><p>When they had found Sherlock, their immediate priority had been getting him to the nearest trauma center. The nearest trauma center had been this country hospital that John has spent the last four days in, and it is barebones at best. They don't have the best equipment, and they don't have the best staff. The hospital Mycroft is having Sherlock transferred to is not that far, just an hour and a half away by ambulance, and John only recognises its name as a private one. He spent a few minutes looking at pictures on his phone before they got there, and the rooms look more luxurious than a damn hotel.</p><p>If Sherlock were in any other state, John wouldn't have felt comfortable with it. It's <em>too </em>fancy. It's posh to the point of showing off and John feels his blood pressure rising every time he passes by another state of the art nurses' station or catches a glimpse of Sherlock's electronic chart, and all he can think about is the chipping paint and duct-taped tubing in the lab at Bart's.</p><p>As it is, he has his doubts about how much any of this will even help.</p><p>They can give Sherlock any creature comfort in the world that they want. None of this will matter to him. Sherlock doesn't want order-in room service from a five-star chef, a physician with a pedigree longer than his arm, and a pool downstairs where he can take water therapy with the princess of Wales.</p><p>But he can't have Baker Street right now.</p><p>So John makes himself up a bed in the <em>fucking sofa </em>in Sherlock's long-term room that is nicer than the furniture that they have at home, and he decides to be grateful that if he's going to kip in hospital, at least he's going to do it in a room meant for royalty.</p><hr/><p>A full week after the rescue, Sherlock starts stirring.</p><p>John is able to tell immediately he is not waking up. He's not ready to yet, and the drugs they have him on reflect that fact. He shifts in bed, his face settling into a pained, worried grimace, and hands twitch, but he is not awake. A nightmare, then.</p><p>"Sherlock. <em>Sherlock." </em>He leans closer, not touching him just yet, his hands hovering while he keeps his voice just next to Sherlock's ear. "That's enough. Calm down, now. You're safe here. Safe with John."</p><p>One of Sherlock's legs kicks, straining against the blanket. His face is pale and nervous and his mouth moves frantically, stumbling over something very rapidly, but no sound comes out.</p><p>"Sherlock," he repeats, very gently touching his hair. "Come on, love."</p><p>There is no response. In fact, John thinks Sherlock might seem even more distressed.</p><p>John straightens after a minute passes, and Sherlock remains upset. He goes to Sherlock's IV, increasing the flow of the sedative just a tick. They're already trying to wean him off opioids; John wants him to sleep through as much of the withdrawal and cravings as he can, and Mycroft is in full agreement. But if it's a choice between aggravating his distress right now, when he's in pain and scared and flinching away from John's hand with his bruised face looking so <em>hurt, </em>and some additional discomfort a few days from now, he knows which one he'll pick.</p><p>Sherlock relaxes back down very quickly, the hard tension in his face and neck softening away. He melts back under the sheets and John's hand, turning into the pillow with a silent, shivered sort of snuffle.</p><p>John sits back down next to him again, reclaiming Sherlock's cold hand, and tries very hard to swallow the knot of unease that just keeps getting bigger and bigger.</p><p>It's been a full week, since they had rescued Sherlock.</p><p>He still hasn't made a single sound.</p><hr/><p>One evening after the transfer, upon which John truly has moved into Sherlock's room for all intents and purposes and that is where he intends to stay, John takes a walk around the hospital. A sorely needed walk to stretch muscles that feel like they're about to cramp and die if he spends one more night just <em>sitting there. </em>Then, after rounding it off with a lukewarm cup of coffee, he squares his shoulders, and marches back to Sherlock's room.</p><p>He opens the door to an empty bed.</p><p>The heart attack is instantaneous, and John steels himself against the swoop of nausea. His first instinct is to be alarmed, because it's <em>Sherlock. </em>It's <em>Sherlock Holmes, </em>and if there's anybody who could get into trouble when he's meant to be drugged asleep with tranquilisers strong enough for a horse, it's <em>him.</em> But he stands there in the door, his fingers digging into the cup and biting hard into the inside of his cheek, and can't name what trouble Sherlock could've possibly gotten into.</p><p>Sherlock is drugged out of his mind. Even if he did wake up, he wouldn't have been able to get far, and the windows in these patient rooms don't open. Meanwhile, Mycroft's security is invisible and worth their money: nobody could've attacked him in his hospital room, and Sherlock could not have gotten up and wandered away.</p><p>But...</p><p>Then where is he?</p><p>Where is Sherlock?</p><p>"Sherlock?" he calls, feeling a little useless and stupid. He's just <em>standing there </em>in the empty doorway to the world's fanciest hospital room, holding a bad cup of coffee, and the patient is nowhere to be seen. "You here?"</p><p>There is no answer, and concern spikes in his stomach. There were no tests or procedures scheduled for tonight, Sherlock's condition is stable, and even on the off chance that something <em>had</em> happened to him, John would've been notified. Besides, the room doesn't look like a patient was wheeled out in a hurry.</p><p>He lingers next to the still unmade bed, his mind racing.</p><p>Sherlock has not yet been fully awake yet. They have had no opportunity to actually talk to him, and establish that he knows where he is, what is going on, that he is safe. John has had a few one-sided conversations with him, but Sherlock was always bleary-eyed and silent, intoxicated on a stream of narcotics. John would not be surprised at all if Sherlock, brilliant though he is, has no memory of anything that he has been told.</p><p>Something about this does not feel right.</p><p>"Sherlock?" he calls again, a littler softer, now. "Sherlock, it's John. Are you all right? Answer me, Sherlock!"</p><p>The room is ludicrous in its luxuriousness, but it is also still a hospital room. There are not exactly many places to hide. The corners are big and empty, the curtains are paper-thin and white, and there's not room for him to be hiding under the bed or sofa. John remains confident that Sherlock would not have been able to stumble off into the corridor somewhere, so...</p><p>He turns to the suite's attached bathroom. The door is shut. John had left it open.</p><p>The unease in his gut solidifies.</p><p>Once again, he calls Sherlock's name, this time loud and demanding. "Sherlock!" he starts, rapping a fist on the door. "Are you in there? It's John, Sherlock! Open this door, <em>now!" </em>On one hand, John would love to be gentle about this, but on the other, Sherlock is very unwell, and even in this posh place, the doors to the patient bathrooms don't have locks for a reason. He's not going to stand here being kind to a shut door when Sherlock could be bleeding and need attention on the other side.</p><p>"I'm coming in," he says sternly, rattling the door a final time. "I hope you're decent, Sherlock."</p><p>He opens the door.</p><p>And--</p><p>The floor drops out from underneath his feet.</p><p>Sherlock is curled into an impossibly tight, tiny ball, his long, injured limbs all squeezed up as small as he can get them. He presses back into the corner and is shaking badly, only held up at all by the support of the walls and the compactness of his own ball, panting to himself and blinking at nothing. The instant the door opens, his eyes flick upwards to him.</p><p>Something is very, very wrong.</p><p><em>"Sherlock," </em>he hisses. He's terrified and relieved and frantic all at once, and it takes all the self-control he has not to wrench the ever-living <em>moron </em>up off the floor right then and there. "What are you doing?"</p><p>Sherlock has left the lights off, so John follows his lead, crouching across from him in the dark. He's still panting and trembling like mad, his eyes tracing John like a hawk's. Something about his face warns him to stay back.</p><p>Damn it. <em>Damn it. </em>John has been by his side for days, keeping watch on his ever fluctuating and precarious vitals, feeding him ice chips when he's delirious and semi-conscious, mopping up the sweat from his bloody brow. And <em>of course, </em>Sherlock waits until he steps out of the room for five damn minutes to open his eyes for real.</p><p>He shouldn't have woken up alone. Not like this. Not now.</p><p>There's blood smeared on the white floor. Not much, and there's about a dozen places on Sherlock it could've come from, and Sherlock is still wearing only a hospital gown. The many injuries are on display, crowding for space on his skinny, bare limbs, and John still can't hazard a guess where it came from. There's too much on him that's hurt.</p><p>He swallows again, forcing his voice to stay very, very calm. "Hey," he tries gently, "Sherlock. You're bleeding. Can I take a look? Love, can I look?"</p><p>Sherlock stares at him still with those wild, stricken eyes, angry underneath the messy fall of his hair. He bares his teeth when John inches a step closer and jerks backwards, attempting to lash out but managing nothing more than dislodging his own precarious ball. He looks like a cornered, wild animal, injured and caught in a trap and reduced to nothing more than fight or flight.</p><p>It feels like his heart is breaking into a thousand pieces. He just wants to pick Sherlock up and haul him back to bed, because he is <em>bleeding, </em>he is obviously in pain and hurt and huddled on the cold bathroom floor, and at the same time Sherlock has been <em>sodding tortured</em> and he is scared. Sherlock Holmes is <em>scared.</em></p><p>Fuck them. Fuck the two that are still out there and fuck the four that are already dead. How <em>dare they. </em></p><p>An awful feeling of rage and grief collecting there inside him, John settles back on his heels, showing Sherlock his hands. "What can I do?" He forces himself to remain still. He needs to make Sherlock feel safe. Everything else comes after this first step. "Tell me what you need me to do. You're safe, Sherlock. We got you out, and you're in hospital. You're okay, or you're going to be, just as soon as you stop bleeding on the floor, love. Okay?" Sherlock blinks again, his glazed eyes jerky and hostile, and John slowly lowers his hands, just an inch closer. "Just tell me what you need from me to prove it to you."</p><p>Sherlock's eyes flicker dangerously, searching between John and the open door behind him. John starts to move back, thinking he wants him to shut the door, but catches sight of the spilled IV pole on the floor instead. It was taped securely in, and with Sherlock's hands bandaged so heavily, and the one arm entirely out of commission, he hadn't been able to tear it out. It was dragged in here with him and tumbled on the floor, the medication drip stalled without gravity to help it down.</p><p>"Let's fix this, first, hmm?" John carefully wrenches it upright, watching how Sherlock's eyes follow it. He clearly doesn't like the needle, but he's in no position to yank it out. Desperately small mercies. "Just antibiotics, Sherlock. You've had a fever for days. You can probably tell, can't you? I'm sure you can feel it. It's partly why you feel so confused, right now. You need to lie down."</p><p>It's painkillers as well. Half the reason he's so worked up is probably the increasing discomfort and the sudden lack of calming, sleep-inducing painkillers. Reintroducing the medication flow is only going to help him getting a compliant Sherlock back to bed.</p><p>Why hasn't he said anything yet?</p><p>Sherlock's throat jumps as he swallows, his eyes again darting from John to over his shoulder and back again. He blinks hard and shakes his head, like he's having trouble focusing, and stares at John with eyes that are flickering too fast. He's trying to deduce and it's not working. Or it is, but he's too drugged and hurt to make any sense out of the storm of details that his overactive brain latches around and won't let go.</p><p>He wavers suddenly, hitching downward and jerked back up again on wavering legs. He stares at John like he's having to fight very hard to keep his eyes open.</p><p>"Damn it, Sherlock, you're ready to drop-- tell me what's wrong! No--" The detective starts to slip again and this time John catches him, sitting him back upright with firm hands to the shoulders. "I need you to give me <em>something, </em>okay? I'm a doctor, not a mind-reader! Not all of us are as brilliantly minded as you!"</p><p>Why isn't he saying anything?</p><p>Something John's said does seem to have gotten through. He's not sure which part it was, but Sherlock is now blinking at him slowly, looking a bit befuddled instead of hostile, and he allows John to keep him upright. His bright eyes are still glazed and sleepy and John can only hope the painkillers are taking effect.</p><p>"You know," he mutters, "when I tell you that you need to sleep more, I really didn't mean on the <em>floor</em>, you cock..."</p><p>Sherlock blinks slowly at him again. Very slowly and deliberately, his sharp eyes flickering over John in a dozen deductions a second.</p><p>And then, very, very slightly--</p><p>He smiles.</p><p><em>"John," </em>he says. He tries to. There's no sound, but his mouth moves in the shape of it. <em>"John," </em>he mouths, his shiny, morphine-glazed eyes dimming in their panic and exhaustion and pain.</p><p>"...Yes," John says back, his voice thick. He swallows and clears his throat, gently running a hand down through his hair. "It's me, Sherlock."</p><p>He smiles again.</p><p>He smiles, just before he faints, right into John's arms.</p><hr/><p>They diagnose Sherlock with selective mutism, and shut the file.</p><p>It's not that it fits all that well. Because it doesn't. Sherlock does not match the typical patient profile, and most of the literature on it is how it presents in children. Because it is most common in <em>children</em>. It is most common in <em>children, </em>with social anxiety, that are being bullied at school or abused at home, and who are young and lacking in a support system and unable to cope. Sherlock fits precisely none of the typical criteria to watch out for.</p><p>And they give him the label anyway, because Sherlock refuses to even try to communicate in any meaningful way, and that leaves them unable to give him any other diagnosis except this one.</p><p>Nothing else fits. Sherlock simply can not talk.</p><p>They diagnose him. And then? They discharge him.</p><p>There is simply no reason to keep him here any longer. There is nothing physically wrong with him that needs urgent medical care. He is still hurt, and weak, and<em> silent. </em>But there is no longer anything that they can do for him.</p><p>Sherlock dodges a serious psych consult by virtue of having the British government for a big brother, and is able to get license to go home by simply shaking his head, when asked several pointed questions about self-harm, depression, and suicidal ideation. John can't believe such a mute interview is really all that helpful, but he wants Sherlock to come home, so he keeps his mouth shut. He doubts the staff is all that happy about it, either.</p><p>And that's that.</p><p>They can go home.</p><p>John packs up what remains in the hospital room in silence, throwing toothbrushes and a razor into his bag on top of changes of clothes, his shirts on top of Sherlock's pajamas, his comb on top of Sherlock's posh shampoo. Sherlock's only been able to take a proper shower very recently, but he can tell the familiar texture and smell had been a relief to him, even if he hadn't been able to say so. He triple-checks the prescriptions and schedule for follow-up appointments. He quadruple-checks the charts and instructions for physical therapy with a grim reluctance, already dreading the absolute battle he knows that they're going to be.</p><p>Every move he makes feels so crushingly loud in the quiet.</p><p>Sherlock waits on the edge of the bed. Rather than trying to wrangle him into proper street clothes that they'll only have to then fight him right out of-- because he is not going anywhere but straight home to bed, John will make sure of that-- he just huddles in the same pajamas he's worn his entire stay here, looking awkward and small. The Belstaff is buttoned up to his throat, empty left sleeve sitting in his lap on top of the remains of the muffins from Mrs. Hudson's last visit.</p><p>John can't stand it.</p><p>"All right," he announces at last, clearing his throat in the quiet. There is simply nothing else left for him to even pretend to do. "That's... I guess that's... that, then. You ready to go?"</p><p>Sherlock gently bobs his head once, still not looking at John. That's the limit of his communication, so far. Nodding and shaking his head.</p><p>It's something.</p><p>"All right," he says again. "Then let's get out of here."</p><p>He sets about helping Sherlock to keep his balance as he switches from the bed to the wheelchair. Because Sherlock's room is on the third floor, and he's still unsteady on his feet and his arm in a sling, and he can't speak to argue against it and John has done his best to not give him a choice. Sherlock is all bone and ice cold as he shuffles with John, looking unhappy and sullen and <em>so. damn. silent.</em></p><p>He drops down with a heavy <em>thump, </em>sinking deeper into his coat and wrapping tighter around the muffins. He looks almost like a child playing dress-up, in a coat that is much too big for him and a high collar that curls around his sharp cheekbones and gives him something to help him hide. An especially big, especially sullen child.</p><p>He's been frustrated for days. Even unable to say so, Sherlock has clearly been increasingly upset and frustrated. At the hospital staff, for being too stupid and slow-minded to pick up on his silent wishes. At Mycroft, for existing in general. At himself, for being unable to speak.</p><p>And though he can't say so, John thinks it's a little at him, too.</p><p>He can only hope that getting the hell out of this hospital will help. Because at this point, he does not know what else he can do.</p><p>John hesitates, his heart still lodged uncomfortably in his throat. He clenches his hand, uncertain, then just slides his palm up to Sherlock's cheek and nudges, gently, just enough to get him to meet his eyes. Sherlock stares back at him, expressionless and cold and his bright eyes like hard glass, and it hurts more than John knows what to do with.</p><p>"Hey," he says gently. "It's going to be okay."</p><p>Sherlock shrugs out from under John's hand, and starts for the door himself.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>Yes, I know... a surprisingly few number of answers, for the first month. John and Mycroft actually don't have those answers yet, either, so they can't be provided here- but never fear! Because next chapter is another important one, where I deliver most of those answers that you've been asking for... :)</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. IX: A Trip and a Fall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!! Onwards!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This has clearly been a travesty of an idea right from the start.</p><p>
  <em>What does it matter? I am asking for your professional experience with selective mutism. I'm not here for anything else!</em>
</p><p>Francis smiles slightly. Perhaps something about this situation is <em>funny </em>to him. "It matters quite a lot, Scott," he begins, the words very carefully selected and neutral. "The inciting incident is important in figuring out the best way forward for you."</p><p>
  <em>You've treated cases of it before. Work based on what you already know.</em>
</p><p>"Scott, every case I have ever had of selective mutism has been a child, who was unable to speak specifically in school, and had a comorbidity with social anxiety. Which you clearly do not have. Most also had autism, which--" Sherlock straightens up even more, fury building in the base of his spine, and the doctor raises a genial hand already in surrender. "Which you have made your opinion about a diagnosis perfectly clear in the past."</p><p><em>Good, </em>Sherlock thinks, still bristling and hot in the face. He is not here for that label. He is not here for <em>this</em>, and he locks his arms together with a jolt, just to keep his hands still.</p><p>He is well-aware of the comorbidity of autism and nonverbal patients.</p><p>But that is <em><b>not what this is. </b></em></p><p>"Regardless," Francis goes on, after giving him a few moments to collect himself. His face is solemn, and Sherlock no longer quite feels like he's being mocked. "Selective mutism set off by an incident of traumatic stress is very rare. The label selective mutism only really applies for lack of a better one, and I have not been able to find any literature or case studies that would be relatable to your case. While I would very much like to help you, Scott, I'm afraid that I'm flying blind."</p><p>Well, that's hardly his problem, is it? People are all idiots. So they want him to solve his own case, now? Is that it? If he gets murdered, will Lestrade then hire a psychic to try and communicate with his ghost to find the killer?</p><p>He keeps his mouth shut, and more importantly than that, his hands still. His legal pad stays empty in his lap out of sheer stubbornness alone.</p><p>He does not want to talk about this.</p><p>After another brief silence, when it must become evident that Sherlock is not going to respond, Francis tries another tactic. He sits forward slightly, looking closely at Sherlock, just closely enough that he starts to fiddle with his pen, just to keep his hands occupied.</p><p>"If it doesn't matter to you," he starts, "then, in your own words... what does it matter at all? We don't have to take up any more time with it, if you don't want to. You can write up whatever you'd like, and give it to me in your next session. I won't even read it until we're done, so we sill have the full hour."</p><p>It's a trap. And a transparent one. They both know that Sherlock does not want to explore that week of his life, and his refusal to discuss it now has nothing at all to do with it not being <em>relevant. </em>Of course it is relevant. It is the most relevant truth in this entire debacle, no matter how much he wishes it were not.</p><p>And that is exactly the trap. Or challenge, perhaps. If it is not something that <em>matters </em>to him, then why does he care, if Francis knows it? What reason does he have not to write it down?</p><p>There isn't one. They both know it.</p><p>Francis smiles again, likely sensing the end of this discussion that has already been laid in stone. "That's enough of that, then, I think," he says, sitting back in his seat. "Let's move on. How has the violin been coming?"</p><hr/><p>The next week passes in a sort of fog.</p><p>He goes through the motions, the regimented, scheduled, <em>dull </em>motions. There's no case that rises above a four, and he wants to wilt into the floor because of it. John, by the increased frequency of cups of tea delivered to him, can tell something is on his mind. John is, once again, worried about him.</p><p>So what? What else is new?</p><p>Of course he doesn't want to talk about it! Why would anyone? It is shameful, humiliating, disgusting! Why should he <em>want </em>to revisit his own defeat and exquisite failure? Why should he want to remember what <em>exactly</em> it feels like to be hurt, and in pain, and frightened, and <em>losing?</em></p><p>His therapist insists that is exactly the point. That speaking, writing, about something that hurt him, and acknowledging that it had hurt him, that he was still hurt by it, is an important step to take. The scars are there whether he acknowledges them or not, but he can't start to truly treat them until he acknowledges that they exist and where they came from.</p><p>Sherlock is once again reminded on how he thinks the entire scientific field of clinical psychology isn't worth the paper it's printed on. If he wanted Hallmark greeting card tripe, then he'd have bought one.</p><p>Why the hell would anybody ever <em>want </em>to talk about something this excruciating?!</p><p>He doesn't. He doesn't at all.</p><p>Not that he's even capable of that much, now, is he? Not anymore. Because he is a <em>freak </em>who can not <em>talk--</em></p><p>Francis Miller, Sherlock determines viciously, is a crackpot and a fraud. He is a worthless quack of a doctor, the same as all therapists, who has given Sherlock nothing but empty words and the advice to try expressing himself through his violin, as if he has not already <em>tried that, </em>and nothing at all more.</p><p>He is a fraud, and how better to show that than by walking right into his next <em>bloody scheduled session</em>, opening his mouth, and talking?</p><p>He can do this. He is Sherlock Holmes. He can, as John tells him, do <em>anything </em>that he puts his mind to. And he trusts John with his life. If John says it, it must be true.</p><p>If he can do anything that he puts his mind to, then he should have no trouble at all opening his mouth, and talking.</p><p>Sherlock sits silently in the suffocating quiet of the flat, fingers steepled before his mouth. There is nobody else here but him. He is comfortable, in no pain whatsoever, and absolutely safe. He's been wetting his throat with tea with honey for the past half hour. There is absolutely nothing that he can find to be wrong.</p><p>He could not possibly ask for a more ideal situation to say his first words in over nine months.</p><p>The seconds roll by. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck and his tongue feels swollen to twice its size.</p><p>...Tomorrow.</p><p>He'll try again tomorrow.</p><hr/><p>His first stop is Scotland Yard.</p><p>It is the perfect plan, he thinks. Gavin, Gary, Graham? Lestrade-- Lestrade has already seen him at much worse than he has been exhibiting this entire past year. Lestrade had known him when his veins were more cocaine than blood. This, this pathetic inability to <em>get over himself? </em>This is nothing. It is nothing at all, compared to what he has already seen. He was once a strung out idiot whose synapses were fried and his mind palace had been half-flooded, half-set on fire with the ever-present wreckage of cocaine. Even the mess that Sherlock knows he is now does not compare.</p><p>Which makes Lestrade the absolutely perfect test case.</p><p>Because even if this experiment fails dramatically, which he <em>loathes</em> to acknowledge the possibility, but he is a scientist, and he knows he must always acknowledge failure as a possible outcome. And even if today ends in the worst outcome imaginable, with Sherlock collapsed into a panic attack stricken bawling child on the floor, Lestrade has seen him worse. He is not John, where he still has so much pride and stature to lose. It doesn't <em>matter.</em></p><p>So Sherlock sets himself up in Lestrade's office on Donovan's day off. He strides in with a pre-written note demanding cold case files, and the inspector looks a little surprised, but is immediately willing. "If you're really that insistent about it," he muses, pulling up one on his computer. "Thought you hated cold cases, though. The crime scenes aren't there anymore, you have to rely on other people's shoddy work, all that rubbish. Where's John?"</p><p>Sherlock waves him away, brushing the question off like a bothersome fly. John is obviously not <em>here, </em>because that would ruin the set-up of the experiment! <em>God, </em>what <em>idiots!</em></p><p>Lestrade hands over a case file on has to be the most <em>boring </em>fraud case ever committed in the history of London, and a cup of coffee with it that is, similarly, the <em>worst </em>cup of coffee ever produced in a police precinct. Which is a shockingly difficult bar to pass, but he thinks this one does it. Perhaps his first words will be a lecture on the ideal manner by which to produce a cup of coffee.</p><p>He clutches it anyway, because it's warm and his hands are cold and it gives him something to keep his fingers still. He clutches it and sits just so, so that his face is hidden behind the file, and that's that. He sits there with his coffee and his case file, safely alone in the office with only Lestrade as company. Lestrade himself goes back immediately to his own paperwork at his desk, and ceases to pay him any mind. It's absolutely perfect. Once again, Sherlock could not ask for a more ideal scenario.</p><p>And the next step is--</p><p>Talking. Yes.</p><p>The next step would be opening up his mouth, and talking.</p><p>Words. Several deliberately chosen, abstract noises. Any noises at all that he picks to come out of his mouth. Preferably some that go together, in an order that makes sense. He has a masterful command of the English language. It can be any one of thousands of possibilities, already brewing inside his skull. Any at all. It doesn't even have to be English, as a matter of fact. He knows Lestrade took French in school, and Sherlock has any one of a dozen languages under his command. Any word from any single one of them would be enough.</p><p>Can be anything at all. Really. Just about any sentence will do. All right, doesn't even have to be a sentence-- could even just be Lestrade's name. That's a statement enough. <em>Gary... </em>or <em>Giles... </em>or <em>Gabrielle... </em>the last one is barely even a word at all, courtesy of the French and their <em>atrocious </em>spelling--</p><p>So, he just needs to... actually say it, now.</p><p>One word.</p><p>That's it.</p><p>Just one word.</p><p>His face and neck feel so freakishly hot that for a moment he wants to tear his scarf off and throw it down on the floor.</p><p>Sherlock gulps air from behind the case file. It feels like there's something stuck in his throat again, a solid obstruction that sucks down oxygen but blocks anything from coming out. He keeps trying it, keeps trying to gasp for a breath to then open his mouth, but the second step never comes. There's nothing there.</p><p>It takes him until the fourth gulp to realise he can't even hear the words in his head.</p><p>He can picture them spelled, sitting there on a piece of paper. He can picture a dozen things that he could say, that he <em>wants </em>to say. But he opens his mouth and he can't hear how they're meant to sound or taste, how they're meant to feel in his own mouth. It's just <em>one word </em>and he can't--</p><p>He can't do it.</p><p>"Sherlock? You all right over there, lad?"</p><p>Sherlock slaps the file down, and stares back across the desk at Lestrade.</p><p>Lestrade is looking at him very closely, but not as if something is wrong. Rather than concerned, he seems bemused, and is in fact even fighting back a small smile. "You keep sniffing over there," he says, waving a hand at him, "you coming down with a cold? Is that why you're here, you're hiding from John?"</p><p>Sherlock shoves the file back to him without an attempt whatsoever to reply, and stalks out of the office with his mouth clenched shut and so disgusted with himself he wants to throw up.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>What's wrong with me?</em>
</p><hr/><p>Molly, obviously.</p><p>Molly is his next stop.</p><p>Molly will be easier than Lestrade, of course. What was he thinking? <em>Obviously, </em>he should've started with Molly. What nonsense. He's thinking slow, nowadays, but obviously this is where he should've started. Molly will be easier. Molly is sweet and kind and compassionate, and small and gentle and will be so sickeningly understanding if he fails. Molly will be absolutely fine. Of course he will be able to do this with Molly; how could he ever be afraid of Molly Hooper?</p><p>He invents a reason to be there, writing out that he needs to see the results of her autopsy, and Molly accepts it easily enough. She doesn't ask how he knows about the case she only got just this morning, or why he's interested in the results for the autopsy on a drunk that fell down the stairs.</p><p>Sherlock has a suspicion that Molly is one of the people who's actually a little bit relieved, that he's lost his voice. She'd never say so, of course. She'd never even dream of saying such a thing aloud, and probably feels horrible just to even think it. But he can deduce it on her, and what's more, he can't exactly blame her. It's probably much easier for her to deal with him when he's not critiquing her technique, staring over her shoulder, and demanding information much faster than she's able to provide it. He'd probably prefer himself with his mouth shut, too.</p><p>So he sits there, in Barts' morgue, legs crossed at Molly's desk, and he waits for autopsy results that he doesn't even have the slightest bit of interest in. He stares at her from behind as she works hard, her back to him, moving quickly and efficiently and completely oblivious to what he's trying to do behind her.</p><p>He just needs one start. That's it. He just needs <em>one word</em>, and that'll break the dam. Sherlock is absolutely sure of it. If he can just find a way to get one word out, to just do it <em>once, </em>then that's the only boost that he'll need.</p><p>He even knows what he wants to say-- he's not repeating the mistake he made with Lestrade. He is going to say, <em>Coffee. Black. Two sugars, please. </em>If he can manage it, he'll add <em>I'll be upstairs, </em>just to be smug, just to show off, but if not, that's all right. Just five words. It is <em>just five words. </em>That's all he needs.</p><p>He's <em>Sherlock Holmes. </em>What the hell is wrong with him?! He eats serial killers for breakfast, regularly spars with the British government, and took down <em>Jim Moriarty.</em> Surely he can manage the monumental task of <em>opening his mouth </em>and <em>speaking. </em></p><p>Damn it.</p><p>Damn it.</p><p>
  <em>DAMN IT!</em>
</p><p>He'd have smacked himself, if that wouldn't have gotten Molly's attention and ruined his whole entire plan. Slapped himself across the face to knock himself out of this falling spiral, to just dislodge the words he <em>knows </em>are locked in his throat. They're right <em>there, </em>he can <em>taste them-- </em>he wants to reach down into his own throat and tear them out, bleeding and dripping with stomach acid, hold them in his own two hands to scream them to the world at large. He wants to scream at poor Molly until she cries and scream to Mycroft to go <em>fuck himself, </em>and more than anything else he wants to scream in this acoustic, metal chamber and hear them echo back right to him.</p><p>He wants--</p><p>Molly is looking at him.</p><p>Molly has turned around from her work. And Sherlock, so self-absorbed and selfish and <em>stupid </em>in his own little internal catastrophe, as always, has not noticed. He's sat here making a complete and utter fool of himself, and she's stood there watching it for god only knows how long. Him just gaping and gasping like a brainless goldfish on land, <em>obviously </em>trying to speak, and yet he can not. He can not.</p><p>It's the same terrifying, hollow sensation that had possessed him in that miserable house of his first return to a crime scene, all those months ago. Perhaps the greatest humiliation of his life. Certainly the greatest one of this past year. It's like he's been kicked out of his body, an emergency reflex as warning and alarm lights switch on and the doors are bolted shut without his permission, screeching in his head as he flees down into the only safety he has left. It's a feeling that picks him up, forcibly evicts him. and throws him to the very bottom of the palace, where he crumbles at the foot of the very longest staircase in a heap of shattered limbs and a cracked skull and bleeding bone fragments, and it <em>hurts, </em>but he is safe.</p><p>It hurts, and yet from all the way down here, so very far away, he hears his throat spasm out a desperate noise that is only barely recognisable as human. It is not remotely close to a word.</p><p>And that's it. It's over.</p><hr/><p>He remembers, later, trying to stagger away. He'd barely been in control of his own body but the one thing he'd still known, then, was that he wanted to be alone. He <em>needed </em>to get out of here, where Molly is staring at him with shocked, pitying eyes, and holding his hand, and taking his pulse because he probably looks like he's having a bloody heart attack. He wants to be alone, in a very deep, dark pit, with the blankets over his head to ride out the oncoming panic where no one can see.</p><p>He's still bleeding at the bottom of the stairs, and is shaking too badly to climb up them to get out.</p><p>Instead--</p><p>Well, look at that.</p><p>He's collapsing into a panic attack stricken bawling child on the floor after all.</p><p>Except, instead of Lestrade having no idea whatsoever to do about it, it's Molly. <em>Molly Hooper. </em>And she has to hold his hands to stop him from scratching his own throat to bleeding shreds, because he just <em>spoke. </em>He just <em>made noise, </em>but he can't do that, because that means. That means. <em>John-</em></p><p>It is pathetic and infantile, and he doesn't care. He must see John. He wants John. John, John, <em>John.</em></p><p>The minutes pass with him crumbled into the bottom of his palace, and soon, it's Molly and John.</p><p>"Jesus Christ, what happened? <em>What happened?"</em></p><p>"I don't know, I'm so sorry, John, he's been like this ever since I called you--"</p><p>"Sherlock. <em>Sherlock. </em>Look at me, now."</p><p>He can't do it.</p><p>He stays there, sitting in the deepest level of the palace, where it's cold and dim and he's shivering in his coat, aching all over and shellshocked. He keeps his head in his knees, breathing into his trousers, and above all else, he keeps his mouth shut.</p><p>This is so pathetic.</p><p>"Okay. All right, Sherlock. You need to calm down, now. Right now, understand? You're hyperventilating. That's why you feel like this, you're not getting enough oxygen, and that's telling your brain there's something to be scared of, but there's nothing, all right? It's just me." Something warm gathers around his hand and folds his fingers like a marionette's, folds each one, turning them until they feel something thudding underneath them. <em>Thump. Thump. Thump. </em>"Sherlock, you're scaring Molly. Deep breath, now. Right now."</p><p>His head is cradled and stroked and coddled, cushioned against something soft, and he can hear breathing in his ear. John's breaths. He's being held against John's chest with his ear pressed to his lungs, and his hands have been folded to feel John's heartbeat. In, and out. In, and out.</p><p>He breathes with John.</p><p>"That's it. Perfect. Jesus, you're shaking; come on, Sherlock. Just focus on me." John's arms tighten securely around him, enveloping him all around in a warm John-blanket. "Good man, absolutely. Just like that. Breathe in again. That's it. You're doing fine. You're doing so well, Sherlock."</p><p>He's not. He's not doing well at all. He's hyperventilating on the floor of a morgue after triggering <em>himself.</em></p><p>Mind palace John finds him again, because he's too miserable to even pretend it's not what he wants. He sinks deeper into his own head, the emergency lights dimming as his breaths steady and the urgent alarms switching off when his body understands that he is safe, and the danger is only in skin and muscle memory, reminiscent in fear. John wraps around him in the morgue and mind palace John lets him sink onto his side, clutched around his lap in the dark.</p><p>He sits there on the floor of the morgue in John's arms, cries like a fucking baby, and gasps soundlessly into John's neck. Scaring the hell out of them all and permanently, utterly ruining anything that had ever been left of his own pride. John continues to speak to him, his voice tense and strained, but very little of the words themselves make it through to the bottom of the palace. Gentle praises, warm encouragements to keep breathing, that he's doing well, that he's safe, that John will keep him safe. Only the worry underneath them fully permeates, and the warm of John's fingers as they wipe against his face.</p><p>"It's okay," mind palace John tells him, his fingers tracing a line down the back of his neck. "You're okay, sweetheart.'</p><p>Sherlock doesn't have any idea why his <em>mind palace </em>John would say something so utterly stupid.</p><p>And the most disgusting thing about it is he can't even tell him to shut up. Not right now. He can't even open his mouth <em>inside his own head </em>and tell <em>mind palace </em>John to fuck off.</p><p>Fine. He's lost. He admits it, now. He's crumbled and bleeding in a ball all the way at the very bottom of the palace, shivering too badly to claw his way out, and there's no other word for it. He has <em>lost.</em></p><p>From far, far away, he feels John's fingers in his hair. He says something, something that sounds a bit like <em>safe, </em>and deep down in the basement, where no one else can hear him, Sherlock screeches out a laugh. It's earsplitting and mad and echoes through the entire palace.</p><p>Safe.</p><p>As if he is any such thing.</p><p>As if it <em>matters.</em></p><hr/><p>John takes him home.</p><p>In something of a daze and fog, his movements guided through a trance, with an extremely worried Molly walking with them to the taxi and John holding his hand in the backseat like he's a child. He's handed a hot cup of tea with too much sugar, because that's the way John makes it when he's worried; he always overestimates how much sugar Sherlock wants. He's not made to eat anything. They shower, which means Sherlock sits there under the hot spray while John cards through the sweaty, sticky mess with stiff fingers and a look on his face that is too much to take. (He doesn't remember where his clothes went. He doesn't remember John even taking them off.)</p><p>"I'm so worried about you," John murmurs to him, his voice hushed underneath the spray. He doesn't think Sherlock can hear him at all. He thinks Sherlock is still lost in his own head and that's the only reason he says it, cradling his hair and forehead pressed to his. "You have no idea, do you? You don't think I pay attention but I do. I'm so worried about you but I can't read your mind, Sherlock. I know it's not fair to ask you to do any more than you already are but god, love. What do I do? What... what do you need from me?"</p><p><em>This. </em>Sherlock lets his head loll against John's wet shoulder, his cheek pressing against the angry starburst scar. <em>This is it. This is all I need.</em></p><p>But he can't say as such to John. That is all that <em>John </em>needs, and Sherlock can't give it to him.</p><p>And that is the problem.</p><p>Sherlock has, by now, climbed his way out of the palace. He is cold, still shivering, and humiliated, but he is fully himself again. He supposes he could try to communicate this, if he really wanted to, but John is busy doing up the buttons on his softest shirt, murmuring some nonsense about Sherlock being <em>safe </em>and everything is <em>okay,</em> and the care is warm and addicting, so he lets him do it.</p><p>Now that he is sensible again, he even knows the term for it. What has happened, this afternoon: dissociation. But John isn't asking him, so he doesn't say so. Dissociation.</p><p>Another reaction to severe trauma, and a symptom that is most common in small children.</p><p>John tucks him into bed despite it being barely half six, because there's really no sense in pretending Sherlock is going to come online, eat takeaway in the sitting room, and watch bad telly with him any time tonight. John draws the sheets and blanket up around him instead, all the way up to his chin, watching him all the while with wary, worried eyes and his hands hovering against his hair. He lingers still when it's all done, sitting next to him and not seeming sure at all what he's supposed to be doing.</p><p>"Okay," he says, finally, when Sherlock has at last made it apparent that he is not going to have another breakdown. He is lax and limp and tired on his side, though it's only early evening still. He honestly could go to sleep. He wants to crawl back into a deep, dark hole in the palace and go to sleep and not come out for a week. "I'll... I'll be just out in the kitchen. If you need something. Okay?" He slides Sherlock's mobile into his hand and folds his fingers around it, patting them shut one by one. "Text me if you need or want anything. Anything at all, Sherlock."</p><p>John can't stand the silence. He wants to stay with Sherlock, and feels absolutely dreadful for leaving him like this, but he can't take it anymore. He can't take having zero response from Sherlock to tell him that what he's doing is helping. He can't take looking after a hyperventilating doll for hours and the only answer Sherlock is still able to give him is nothing beyond a dull, miserable nod.</p><p>John needs action, and adrenaline, and to feel useful. This? Lying in bed at six in the evening, babysitting a completely silent mannequin of a partner? After everything else that Sherlock has already put him through?</p><p>This kills John.</p><p>Sherlock keeps his mouth shut, giving John the dull, unseeing nod that he needs. And John lingers still for a moment longer, his hand catching in his damp hair and his eyes full of so much worry it weighs in his chest like lead.</p><p>John kisses his forehead, and leaves.</p><p>This is it, then.</p><p>This is how his great, triumphant stand ends.</p><p>Sherlock rolls onto his back and flings his arm over his head, glaring at the ceiling. Sickness still churns in his stomach and throat, but the despair has flagged, and with it the blinding rage that vibrates in his bones and fills him with the need to scream. It's all gone, and in it's place, he just feels... empty. Nothing.</p><p>This, more than anything else, is a failure.</p><p>His phone buzzes.</p><p>
  <b>A busy day in paradise, I see. How are you, Sherlock? -MH</b>
</p><p>His thudding heart skips a beat.</p><p>Of course the interfering tosser knows. He probably watched John shepherd him out to a cab on CCTV. So?</p><p>Is this the catalyst Mcyroft has been waiting for, then? Sherlock has just had a very extreme, very <em>public</em> breakdown. Molly had to restrain his hands to stop him from harming himself, and both John and Molly can attest to a temporary break with reality. He knows they'd spent a good few minutes wanting to sedate him. Is this the eventuality that Mycroft has been waiting for, then? Is this his victory text, to precede the delivery of his ultimatum that Sherlock either go to his cushy hellscape of a clinic willingly, or be forced?</p><p>Sherlock will never speak to him again. He already has not spoken to him in months.</p><p>His phone buzzes again a moment later, warm and insistent in his hand.</p><p>
  <b>I should clarify, this is not meant as a challenge. Interpret it as an olive branch, if you must. I am merely asking how you are, with no ulterior motive. -MH</b>
</p><p>Sherlock narrows his eyes.</p><p>Liar.</p><p>
  <em>Fine. -SH</em>
</p><p>His phone is silent for several more minutes.</p><p>
  <b>Dr. Francis Miller is very well regarded in his field. You chose well. -MH</b>
</p><p>Sherlock snorts silently, turning onto his other side. Nosy, prying bastard. Of course he knows.</p><p>
  <em>Fraud. -SH</em>
</p><p>
  <b>Because he suggests you try things that you do not want to do? -MH</b>
</p><p>
  <em>Nobody asked your opinion. -SH</em>
</p><p>He prefers it when he and Mycroft aren't speaking. Very little good has ever come out of Mycroft's spying and meddling, and there is absolutely no good that can come out of it now. This is not a problem that can be fixed with obscene amounts of money and high-ranking officials looking the other way.</p><p>
  <b>I am only going to say this once, and I will not be appreciative if you bring it up again. I crossed a line when we last spoke, and for that, I apologise. John was correct. You are doing the best that you can, and ought to be proud of the strides you have made. You are not unstable, and I should not have treated you as such. -MH</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Goodnight, little brother. Sleep well. -MH</b>
</p><p>Sherlock scoffs again-- silent, always silent-- and resists the urge to toss his fucking phone across the room.</p><p>The space inside his chest hurts.</p><hr/><p>That night, after John has stumbled into bed, and then some. Hours later, when he is very, very sure that John is absolutely, dead asleep.</p><p>Sherlock pads silently to his feet, and goes to fetch his legal pad.</p><p>
  <em>In the course of a murder investigation, I inadvertently also gathered evidence that solved another open police investigation: a drunk driving accident in which a child was killed. Though I did not know it at the time, this was the culprit's third offense. The evidence in my possession would put him in prison for a very lengthy sentence. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The culprit was a spoiled and stupid boy. Twenty years old, but with the attitude and mind of a teenager, who had no interest in anything but killing himself at the end of a heroin chaser. His father, however, was a retired member of special forces. The team he led in Afghanistan assisted especially in enhanced interrogation techniques, the likes of which are most likely illegal under the Geneva convention. I did not know any of this at the time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The father was helping to cover up the crime, and took notice when I began to get close. When he overheard me mention the drunk driving case during a call, he knew that he had to get the evidence from me, and destroy it. His one obstacle was that he did not know where I had hidden the evidence. He gathered his old team members, and it seems they were all willing to go on one last mission. Semper fidelis.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They knew they would not have much time. However, they did not need it. The ordinary practice of <strike>enhanced inter</strike> torture techniques is to create a malleable subject, who will willingly provide you with all that you want to know over a long period of time. In my case, they only required one piece of information. They needed me alive, conscious, and my brain relatively uninjured. Beyond this, they had no limits.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was a good deal for them. If they were caught at all, which was unlikely, they could only be charged with assault. The ringleader was saving his son from a far worse charge. All for the price of my good health.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I had no stake in this case, and I have very little interest in justice. I am intrigued by the puzzle, rather than invested in the end result. I resisted at first, as a matter of pride, but when it became clear how far they were willing to go, I would have told them. One spoiled drunk getting off to drive himself face-first into a tree is of no consequence to me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But, in the limitless bounds of my cleverness, I had given John the flashdrive.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I attempted to claim that I had hidden it in a place only I would be able to find. They knew I was lying. I attempted to send them after a spare flashdrive I'd left stashed at Barts' lab. They took one hour to determine that was a lie, and spent the next three removing my nails. There might have been another plan I could have used, some additional stalling tactic to buy time, but I never had enough time to think. Every minute was occupied with some form of physical torment, and though I have a superior mind, and can compartmentalise physical pain very well, there is a limit to how far even I can go. I needed time to rebuild my palace, and restore my mental defenses, and calm down. I never got that time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>At a certain point, it became clear that I was not going to be able to last. At some point, I would give them John's name. This could not be allowed. If they would do this to me, there was no promise that they would not kill him. There was no promise that John still had the flashdrive at all, and they wouldn't interrogate him just the same to find where it had been moved. I had no insurance of any kind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was selfish of me, but I did not wish to delete John.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Therefore, all I could do was remove my ability to tell them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If given the choice, I would do so again.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>Next chapter carries on immediately from here, for John to learn the answers we just did, and for Mycroft to continue stepping back into his good big brother shows. We're in the final stretch, now!</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. X: Back on the Horse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!! Onwards! Remember, this chapter follows directly from the end of the last one, where Sherlock finally wrote down the explanation for how all of this happened.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John does not take it well.</p><p>"The Williams case?" he asks at first, perhaps only two paragraphs into it. He glances at Sherlock, bemused. "That's what this is all about? He pled guilty forever ago. I think Lestrade said something about him starting to sing a whole different tune when he realised Daddy wasn't coming to bail him out."</p><p>Yes. Sherlock knows. He'd gotten the truth from Mycroft months ago.</p><p>The compete destruction of Sherlock's body, and the limited but horrific devastation of his mind palace, has yielded in twenty years in prison for one spoiled drunk of a man-child. He knows that Mycroft had stuck his fat fingers into it, to ensure that he had gotten the absolute maximum as allowed by the law.</p><p>It doesn't quite feel worth it, somehow.</p><p>He also knows that if the boy had had any hand in what his father had done to Sherlock, then he would not currently be enjoying the country's tax dollars in a concrete cell.</p><p>John's amused smile fades, the longer that he keeps reading.</p><p>Sherlock can pinpoint the moment that he reaches the part with his own name.</p><p>John tends to be good, about disguising his own reactions. When he wants to, at least. His smile drops like a light, but there's nothing there to replace it, either. The line of his jaw goes tight and his hands crinkle into the legal pad, wearing wrinkles into the sheets, but it is only because Sherlock knows John's mannerisms so well that he can see the building storm.</p><p>He looks at Sherlock, out of the corner of his eye. He's gone bloodless and cold, the rage darkening in his eyes, and for several seconds there is nothing but horrible silence.</p><p>"It's my fault," he rasps. "This happened because of me."</p><p>No. Sherlock shakes his head, his throat thick and his hands too heavy to sign. He had written the papers as explicitly clear as he could, because he had known where this would end. And this is not John's fault. This is not John's fault in any way.</p><p>John turns away, up on his feet to pace, his back to Sherlock as his shoulders hunch and tremble in just barely restrained fury. He ends up in the kitchen, gripping the table of his experiments in white-knuckled fists with each and every breath a fight.</p><p>He snatches one of the 250 mL beakers, and hurls it to shatter in the corner that's the farthest away from Sherlock.</p><p>"Shit," he gasps. Then he does it again. <em>"Shit."</em></p><p>
  <em>Stop.</em>
</p><p>He keels over in the kitchen, his knees trembling underneath him as one hand grasps at his chest, as if trying to claw out a deep pain there. Sherlock knows the feeling very well. He gulps in air, increasingly loud and horrified, Sherlock's pointed scrawl as sharp and dangerous as a knife to the stomach. Perhaps this is what Sherlock looked like yesterday, on the floor of the morgue.</p><p>Sherlock only has the time to carefully make it to his feet, before the flow starts.</p><p>"It's my fault! It's my fault! All of this is-- oh my <em>god--</em>" He paces back and forth, tearing at his hair with his eyes gone wide and horrified. "I can't believe this! This whole time I've been so worried, trying to figure out what could've possibly caused this, and this whole time, it was-- no. No, <em>no, </em>oh my god--"</p><p>He suddenly spins to face Sherlock, breathing even faster now, each one a shallow and desperate gasp. "I'm so sorry! I'm so <em>sorry, </em>Sherlock! You must hate me, I-- c-can't believe-- <em>all this time--"</em></p><p>He's trembling violently when Sherlock closes the gap, his eyes unfocused because Sherlock knows Baker Street is not what he's seeing. He's seeing Sherlock's broken arm and shredded back, all the way back in hospital. He's seeing Sherlock just yesterday afternoon, huddled in a tearstained ball on the floor like an idiot. He's seeing the entirety of these past ten nightmarish months and now it's all under the veneer of it being <em>his fault.</em></p><p>Sherlock catches his fists in his hands, pushing them both down. John is shaking and staring up at him with horrified eyes, and Sherlock <em>hates it, </em>oh, <em>GOD, </em>but he can do nothing but stare back and shake his head. He wants to reach inside John and find that growing knot of guilt and horror and self-loathing, and immerse it in acid and destroy it. He wants nothing of it left and to fill that space instead with himself, to stamp all that is wrong here out of existence and press the truth into John's head with such insistence that there is nothing left in him but that. <em>I do not blame you. I have never blamed you. Stop. Stop. STOP.</em></p><p>But he can do none of those things, and John is on the brink of a panic attack instead.</p><p>They sink down together, John into the only chair so Sherlock onto the floor. He keeps his hands around John's fists and leaves them there when they finally unclench, his fingers grasping into Sherlock's like he's drowning and Sherlock is his raft, and Sherlock presses closer. He can't stop John from gasping so he just meets his frantic eyes and stares back until he understands.</p><p>"Why didn't you-- you--" John gulps again, his voice breaking. He frees himself from Sherlock's grip to curl his hands around his face like he's cradling something precious, his eyes filling with desperation. "God damn it. I can protect myself, Sherlock! I don't need you to keep me safe, you think I'm afraid of-- of <em>them?" </em>He says the word like it's absurd, it's laughable, like the very thought of these people trying to hurt him is the funniest joke Sherlock has ever told. "You think I'm scared of of these shit pieces of human <em>trash? </em>They wouldn't fucking <em>touch me, </em>Sherlock, I'd, I'd--"</p><p>Sherlock slumps lower on his knees, shaking his head. He's already half on the floor and sinks all the rest of the way, and he can't<em> talk, </em>what does it <em>matter, </em>so he just presses his face to John's stomach and keeps shaking his head. No. Never. <em>Never.</em></p><p>He knows John can protect himself. He knows John is infinitely capable of holding his own in a fight and that just about anyone who would willingly challenge him is an idiot.</p><p>The same can be said for Sherlock. And look at where he is now.</p><p>They sit there like that, Sherlock on the floor and John's trembling hands in his hair. Sherlock desperately doesn't want to see the devastated look on his face, so he doesn't look up. He just breathes in John's shirt and shakes his head. <em>It's okay. I'm alive. I'm okay. We're okay, John.</em></p><p>
  <em>Please don't do this. I can't bear it for you to do this.</em>
</p><p>He calms down by degrees. Sherlock can feel it, in the strain of his breaths and the tightness of his fingers in his hair. He curls his arms more around his waist, wanting to press closer to John still, to just wrap himself into the warmth until it suffocates the silent anguish inside him.</p><p>"I'm so sorry," John finally rasps again. He strokes his hair with shaking fingers, still sounding perilously close to tears. "I'm so... tell me you don't hate me, Sherlock.<em> Please."</em></p><p>He can't laugh, but it's an incredibly close thing. Sherlock shakes his head again and pushes up, his hands sliding up the strong curve of his back to again find John's face. Imbecile. John Watson is an imbecile.</p><p>He kisses John's wet face, and then, snatches up the crinkled papers again, to redraw his attention to the very last line.</p><p>
  <em>If given the choice, I would do so again.</em>
</p><p>This is the answer. Sherlock may have a number of regrets, about all of this, all of them in explanation as to why he is kneeling on the floor of his kitchen ten months in, mute and shaken and stricken. But he has no regrets about the decisions he made ten months ago. He is alive. John is alive. And though John does not know it, he is finding his voice again.</p><p>"Okay," John sighs, his bright eyes squeezing shut. He swallows hard, and re-wraps his hands around over his.</p><p>There's a few beats of silence between them. Of shattered glass on the floor, and John's strong heart thudding against his thumbs.</p><p>"I'd kill them, Sherlock," John says quietly. He opens his eyes to look at him and they're dark in their intensity, filling him with warmth from the inside out. "I'd kill them in a second and dump the bodies on your brother's doorstep. I'd kill each one of them and they'd be lucky that's <em>all </em>I did." His thumbs stroke over his cheekbones, each of his exquisitely skilled fingers stroking his face. "I want to find their graves and burn the bodies and feed the ash to your experiments. I <em>hate them."</em></p><p>Sherlock smiles slightly back against his mouth. He hates them too. He hates what they did to him and he <em>hates </em>that it is still there. He hates the silence they forced into his flat and he hates what they have done to John by proxy. And if he thinks about it, John offering to give him the ash of their cremated bodies for him to experiment on to his heart's content just might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to him.</p><p>He kisses John again. <em>I love you.</em></p><p>Someday, he will say it out loud again.</p><hr/><p><em>Fine. </em>Francis is not a fraud.</p><p><em>I told John, </em>he hands over, in their next session. <em>Now John is miserable. It didn't help.</em></p><p>He hadn't bothered to wait until the end to hand over the same manuscript he had given John. It'd be a waste of time, he'd determined, to not talk about the elephant stampeding right there in the middle of the room. And the one thing Sherlock is not here for is to waste time.</p><p>"Was John especially happy before you told him?"</p><p>Sherlock grits his teeth, looking away. That's the reason he's here, isn't it?</p><p>John wasn't happy.</p><p>That's why he's here, and it's still not helping.</p><p>Francis nods slightly again when Sherlock does not answer. He can read the reply from the silence, so at least he's useful for something. "Reacting unhappily to unhappy news doesn't necessarily mean anything bad, Scott," he reminds him. It is a mantra that it feels like he has spent months hearing. "Coping with traumatic or unhappy things doesn't mean being happy all of the time. I would be more concerned if John wasn't affected by everything that you told him. It just means that you and he are processing those emotions in a healthy way."</p><p>Yes, yes, he <em>knows.</em> He's heard it all before, all of these useless, well-meaning platitudes. Sitting here mute and useless ten months after the fact isn't because he is crazy or a freak or abnormal, it is an understandable <em>reaction </em>to abnormal <em>events.</em></p><p>Useless platitudes, all of it. It doesn't matter what it's called. The fact of the matter is, he still can't speak, John is still miserable, and Sherlock doesn't know how to fix it.</p><p>He doesn't mention his other failures of the past week. He sees no reason to embarrass himself even further.</p><p>"All right," Francis continues, settling back in his chair. "John is still unhappy, then. What about you? Do you feel any better, after explaining everything to John?"</p><p>Sherlock scoffs with his air alone. He draws a line across his throat again, turning his gaze away in disgust with himself; with this whole bloody charade.</p><p>Obviously, he doesn't. Because if he did, they wouldn't be carrying out this conversation on a <em>bleeding legal pad. </em></p><p>Francis smiles again, undeterred. "It's a process, Scott. As I said, I'd actually be somewhat worried, if you had walked in here today completely back to your old self. I know you don't like it, but you're not going to find any magic trick, shortcut, or easy answer, to be the solution that you want." He breaks off for another moment, one finger stroking down the other, clearly still searching for stable ground. "Why were you so reluctant to tell John what happened?"</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes. <em>He'd blame himself. I desire a return to normalcy. That cannot happen if John is occupied with blaming himself.</em></p><p>"Can you define normal, Scott?"</p><p>He looks away again, scratching short nails against his skin. He'd rather not, actually. Because if he does, if he does provide his answer to that question, then he answers it with <em>what John and I had before. </em>And if he answers with that, then he has to sit here and listen to Francis tell him, patiently, like he's a small and stupid child, that that <em>normal </em>isn't coming back.</p><p>Another spike of frustration stabs through him, joining the nervous twitching already in his hands and knotted in his stomach. He tears on straight through to a clean page, skipping ahead in his head without bothering to even address that first question.</p><p>
  <em>In sorting through my files on the incident to properly recollect them, I have determined that part of my difficulties in handling them is in that I was scared. These experiences had frightened me. This is a new experience for me-- I have nearly been killed many times but I have never been afraid of dying before, and I was afraid of that. They didn't even want to kill me at all, and I was afraid of it anyway.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The difference is that I've never had something to be afraid of losing before. I'm not suicidal and I never was, but I've also never had the sort of life that I would mind to lose. Why should I? Your death is something that happens to other people. Whatever fallout there is, it's not going to bother you. I imagine you can't be bored if you're dead. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I wasn't just scared of how it would affect John. For the first time, I had a life that I didn't want to lose. </em>
</p><p>Sherlock reads over the paragraphs again, dust and grit collecting in his throat. They are disgustingly sentimental, and already something that he knows he would never be able to say aloud to a therapist. He likely wouldn't be able to even say them aloud to John.</p><p>What follows in his head, he isn't able to even write down, never mind speak aloud.</p><p>That this is a life he's still very, very afraid of losing. Because it's <em>not </em>the life he had before, no matter what he does, he can't force it to even approach a believable parody of that, and what else does he have to offer? He can't offer John <em>remarkable </em>anymore; he barely bloody <em>functions. </em></p><p>It's a very simple case of cause-and-effect: his life is what it is because of John, and if he loses John--</p><p>Sherlock swallows harshly, wrenching that train off the tracks. He will not lose John. He's here, isn't he? He's sitting in a bloody therapist's office, not-talking about his <em>feelings. </em>He will not lose John.</p><p>Francis is watching him quite closely, his eyes lingering on the long string of text he can see scrawled from where he sits opposite. Sherlock glances through the words again, sentimental nonsense, all of them, and simply shakes his head, turning to another clean page. No.</p><p>"Right, then," Francis says at length, when Sherlock makes very, very clear with his silence that he is not going to address what he was asked, or what he has written. "So we'll move on. Have you had any further luck, with trying violin?" He waits through another annoyed shake of his head and nods himself, considering. "I thought as much. I had another idea about that, then-- you've said you haven't been able to play since you lost your voice. Have you given any thought towards composing?"</p><hr/><p>It's unfair, just how <em>often </em>Sherlock has now had to eat his own words, about therapists being useless.</p><p>
  <em>It's a stupidly good idea.</em>
</p><p>In the same way that Sherlock can write, text, and sign, but can not speak-- the violin is spoken word and sound. Every time he tries to reach for it, his head goes empty and his throat itches and he can't do it. It's like when he tried to speak to Lestrade and to Molly. The words he'd wanted to say, the strains he'd wanted to play, they just <em>hadn't been there. </em>Everything is gone and he feels empty and useless and <em>stupid.</em></p><p>But if playing the violin is akin to speaking, then it only makes logical sense, that composing would be akin to writing.</p><p>And he can <em>write.</em></p><p>That night, Sherlock finds himself draped over the sofa like a blanket, his feet in John's lap. They're not like this every night, sometimes they both need space, but John has seemed to want very much to be close to him ever since the full explanation of what happened ten months ago, and Sherlock has no issue providing. He lets John have a hand on his knee or absently stroke his calf or use it to muscle him into eating an extra biscuit, and <em>fine, </em>he loves it too.</p><p>Normally, he has any number of things to keep him occupied, during a spontaneous couch cuddle. His mind palace, science journals, experiment records. Silently bugging John into changing the channel to something slightly more tolerable than late night talk shows.</p><p>Tonight, he has something else.</p><p>His experiment notebook is open in his lap, and tucked into it, where John can not see, is a sheet of staff paper.</p><p>And he composes.</p><p>It's nothing impressive, or challenging to play, or... well. It's not good. Sherlock uncaps his pen and realises he doesn't know what to write; it's as if the block is still <em>there, </em>moving from his throat to his fingers, but he'd already sworn to not get up from this sofa until he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do. So he lifts a theme from a Bach partita, and he develops it out with elementary music theory. Measure after measure, all the way down the page.</p><p>It's definitely not even good. It's quite bad, actually. He is responsible for none of the original material, and the development is as textbook as it gets. He's not even interested in playing this one; that's how <em>boring </em>it is, how <em>dull. </em>The paper deserves to be crumpled up and binned at the soonest opportunity.</p><p>But this is about first steps, isn't it?</p><p>He has always found it easier to express sentiment and emotion acceptably through his violin. It's hateful, to try and put it to words-- he already knows what he wants to say will always come out wrong. He's passionate about creepy, freakish things, his limits are all wrong, the things he actually wants to say are always inappropriately timed or make someone cry or a bit not good. He can't do things <em>wrong, </em>with his violin. Nobody understands the words, but it's still speech. It's still words that he wants to say aloud and can't.</p><p>This is a first step, and he's finally forcing himself to take it, because he is <em>frustrated </em>and <em>angry </em>and <em>tired </em>of being stuck, unable to take any at all.</p><p>John shuts his laptop when it's been hours, hours and stupid hours. He rests it on Sherlock's legs where it's hot and noisy and looks down at him with a triumphant sort of yawn. "Post is done," he announces, one arm still around him. "Finally. You want to watch something?"</p><p>Sherlock pauses. Considers.</p><p>The sheet is full. It is full of borrowed words, not really his own, the passages stilted and awkward, someone who is learning how to speak rather than composing a monologue. He's not sure he'd be able to play it if he even tried. The difference between composing and playing, isn't it; he can do one now, but he's not so sure he can do the other.</p><p>But it is all in his own hand, beginning to end, a story of blue ink, cramping hands, and John's loose, warm arm nudging against his foot. It is <em>him.</em></p><p><em>One moment, </em>he gestures, and curls back over.</p><p>He signs his name. Just that. <em>Holmes.</em> Proof of life. He is still alive and he is not going anywhere.</p><p>Then he re-caps the pen with his teeth, slaps his notebook shut, and folds around, to curl with his head in John's lap instead of his legs.</p><hr/><p>It is a first step.</p><p>And Sherlock remains <em>impatient.</em></p><hr/><p>The next day, after John heads to the surgery, Sherlock texts Lestrade to arrest the nanny, and heads out for a little adventure of his own.</p><p>The dealer that he goes to see lives in an upper scale suburb, where he services London's upper class. Sherlock has never frequented these sorts of circles-- the CCTV networks are impossible to avoid here, and in his more heavily recreational days, he''d stood out like a sore thumb. But he's only going just the once, this time. Just one supply is all he needs, and he needs it as high quality as possible.</p><p>"Very good, Mr. Holmes," Davis murmurs, counting the bills in his hands. "The same as usual? Which one?"</p><p>Davis has an eidetic memory, like Sherlock. It's the reason he's able to be so successful, while running this business on the side: he has no paper trail for the police to follow.</p><p>Sherlock nods, and holds up two fingers. He supposes there's little hope that Davis knows the sign for cocaine.</p><p>"Both? Hang on, hang on, all right, no... coke?" He frowns, giving Sherlock a disgruntled look as he takes the cash. "Cat got your tongue? Wait for me a moment."</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes at his retreating back. He already jitters on the spot, his palms sweaty and chest fluttering with something that isn't quite yet a craving, but it will be, if he lets this go on. He will let this go on.</p><p>Davis' dog comes sniffing to the door. A smart creature, that recognises a friend when she sees one, and lets Sherlock drop to his knees to scratch her neck. The dog licks a wet stripe down his neck and he feels better and worse all in the same breath. <em>Good girl, </em>he thinks, briefly pressing his face to her shaggy side. <em>Good girl.</em></p><p>Nothing comes out, when he tries to say it.</p><p>"Here we are," Davis announces, returning back to Sherlock with a business-like precision, a baggie of very exactly measured and finely cut white powder in hand. "Lucky! Back inside. Mr. Holmes is just leaving."</p><p>Lucky sniffs dolefully at her owner, tail drooping. She looks up at Sherlock, and he allows her to lick his face one final time before rising to his feet, and accepting his medicine.</p><p>The airy weight of it in his hands--</p><p>It's majesty and betrayal all at once. It's the best sensation of his life wrapped up in the acute knowledge that this is not what he wants or how to get it. It's the furious look on John's face, and Francis bluntly opening one of their very first sessions with <em>have you had any cravings recently, Scott </em>because he'd taken one look at him and somehow just known, <em>addict</em>. It is disappointment and letdown and heartbreak.</p><p>And he <em>wants it.</em></p><p>"For the good of my business," Davis starts, his words a slow, almost lazy drawl, "because it's not all that economical a model for my repeat customers to off themselves." He pauses, looking over Sherlock with a very pointed, direct gaze. "I'm obligated to remind you to measure your doses carefully. Especially if it's been a while since you've used-"</p><p><em>Yes, thank you for your input,</em> he thinks, and slams the door shut.</p><hr/><p>Chemical intervention is an obvious and brilliant idea.</p><p>It's not that Sherlock hasn't thought of it before, either. Of course he has. For various reasons, he's shot it down until now, but that's all <em>then, </em>and this is now. First it was the trouble of medication interactions, and John watching him like a hawk; then it was the niggling wariness that Mycroft was spying on him, and would see him slipping back into old habits and use that as an excuse to try and commit him. Then it was pride, that he is not so pathetic as to need the help, of course he's not, he doesn't need <em>help, </em>he is Sherlock Holmes--</p><p>Well. He spends an hour every week sulking in a therapist's office.</p><p>There's really not all that much of his pride left to save, anymore.</p><p>Sherlock has also tried chemical intervention before. Some months ago, he'd hypothesised that alcohol could be a brilliant aid, lowering his inhibitions just enough to loosen his tongue. He even had prime experimental conditions-- once he no longer was taking any medication for it to interact with, John had been more than willing to have a drink with him, right there in the flat. He'd seemed glad to, even; relieved that Sherlock had wanted to do something that could be considered <em>normal.</em></p><p>The whiskey had loosened his tongue. It had also loosened everything else.</p><p>He doesn't remember much of that night. A consequence of very purposefully drinking too much, too quickly. What Sherlock does remember is violently vomiting and gulping air, locked doors fallen open in the palace and gut-wrenching boxes spilling all over the floors. And John, of course.</p><p>Staring at him in naked, horrified alarm.</p><p>It wasn't an experiment worth trying again. John has yet to pour himself anything more than a single glass while at home since.</p><p>But <em>cocaine! </em></p><p>Alcohol does nothing more than bind to inhibitory receptors in the brain. It leaves doors unlocked in the palace without his permission, and tips files over to spill their contents all over the floor when he goes looking for them. Cocaine is an entirely separate beast and it is one of glorious stimulation. Cocaine is like flipping on all the lights at once, new connections spiderwebbing and blazing in neon rainbow to map across his entire brain. Alcohol does nothing but expose old, rotting foundation, the flaws inherent in what it is to be human, but <em>cocaine... </em>cocaine builds something <em>new.</em></p><p>John will be disappointed in him. Of course.</p><p>But John is miserable <em>right now. </em>Sherlock has been letting him down for months, and is letting him down, <em>right now.</em></p><p>How disappointed will John even be able to be, <em>really, </em>if he gets back and it's to Sherlock saying <em>welcome home?</em></p><p>Sherlock passes the needle back and forth, his tongue swollen and his throat dry and itchy, crawling out of his skin right there in his seat. He hasn't even used yet and already he's hot and almost shivering and <em>wants it. </em></p><p>John isn't home. He could start with just a little dose, just the smallest amount, and snorted, to hit the quickest and hardest and flip the switch in his head that he <em>knows </em>needs flipping. That's all he needs. Just one line. Half a line. Half a line, and then he'll speak and then he'll stop.</p><p>He grinds his teeth until he can feel it in his skull.</p><p>And it is in this dreadful, pathetic state, that Mycroft finds him.</p><p>Sherlock shoos him away while barely looking, and makes no effort to hide the needle. The needle is a misdirect, anyway. The ashtray of powdered sugar next to him waits innocently, and the vial of much the same is positioned perfectly in the hollow of the dictionary. The real cocaine has already been tucked securely away into the flour at the very back of one of their highest cabinets. Because apparently, they have flour.</p><p>"You," Mycroft says, "self-destructive, utterly incorrigible <em>child."</em></p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes again. He starts to sign, to order Mycroft to <em><b>go. away., </b></em>but the prat is already making himself at home in John's chair before he's even finished. "What are you trying to accomplish here, brother dear? Are you simply tired, of being sane and healthy? Are you bored, of behaving like a grown-up?"</p><p>Yes.</p><p><em>Yes, </em>he is bored.</p><p><em>Yes, </em>he is <em>tired!</em></p><p>
  <em>That's the sodding problem!</em>
</p><p>Mycroft looks at him, disgustingly unimpressed. He looks at him from where he sits in <em>John's chair, </em>his legs crossed and hands folded, a smug, and vile, and <em>annoying </em>collection of all that is <em>annoying </em>about what humanity has to offer. "I am not leaving until I get an answer."</p><p>
  <em>To what question?</em>
</p><p>"What good do you think this will accomplish, little brother?" He leans forwards, curling his fingers under his chin to stare at him, to <em>judge </em>him, because that is what he always does. "What positive strides do you have any hope of your little stunt accomplishing here today?"</p><p>Sherlock glares back, his own irate fury rising like a tide in his stomach. He keeps his mouth shut and his hands still out of defiance alone. Mycroft knows the answer.</p><p>What positive stride is there left for him to take besides this final step?</p><p>"The silent treatment?" Mycroft tries next. "Quite mature, Sherlock." He rises to his feet to begin to pace carefully about the room. The powdered sugar in the ashtray is ignored, in a very blatant slap to the face, and he moves instead towards his violin sits, cushioned on the sofa. "Music. What a lovely, healthy, scientifically supported thing to try. Have you ever considered that?"</p><p>
  <em>Obviously.</em>
</p><p>"Oh, is it, Sherlock? Is it obvious? Then, do tell. What motivated you to trade in your violin for the chemical rotting of your brain and heart?"</p><p>Irritation twinges inside him, a sour annoyance that just barely blankets over hurt. He'd expected Mycroft to show up, but not like this, and he doesn't know what to do with it. <em>You are angry. Why? </em>Mycroft stares at him, going ever increasingly red, and Sherlock's own anger finally prods into indignation. <em>I have done nothing wrong!</em></p><p>"Nothing <em>wrong?"</em></p><p>
  <em>Brother--</em>
</p><p>Mycroft stalks across the room to snatch the needle out of his hand, red-faced and seething. "You are about to throw away years of sobriety and months of hard work all on a childish fit of impatience! For <em>once </em>in your life, you are being-- <em>healthy, </em>Sherlock. You are seeing a therapist, you are clean, you have an actual relationship, stop the presses, my god! And yet everybody else seems astronomically more invested in preserving your health and happiness than you do! You want to throw all this away, and for what?!"</p><p>
  <em>STOP! It's one hit! It's only one!</em>
</p><p>"Oh, yes, I'm quite sure it'll be just one. Until you want another one. And then another after that. Because that how it goes, isn't it, Sherlock?" Mycroft glances at the ashtray in passing disgust, his glare sliding off of Sherlock like rain slicking the streets outside. "This, Sherlock. This is why I worry about you, <em>constantly."</em></p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes, his teeth still grinding together and his fingers clenched in his lap. It's not <em>the silent treatment, </em>it's that he never bloody well asked Mycroft over here to scream at him for his life choices, and he certainly didn't invite him in to ask his <em>permission </em>to shoot up.</p><p>It's <em>one hit. </em>Just the one!</p><p>Where the hell does <em>Mycroft </em>get off, thinking he can storm in here and do this to him? These past ten months he has existed only as a specter nun to whack him with a ruler when he gets out of line. What on <em>earth </em>made him think he was welcome here today? Sherlock is now doubly tempted to snort every ounce of cocaine he just purchased, right there in his chair. Anything to get the poncy bastard to <em>leave.</em></p><p>"So you have no answer," Mycroft says, when Sherlock, indeed, has nothing to say. He settles back into John's chair to frown at him, still staring at him like he is an especially foolish and stupid child. "No scientific studies that I am aware of show permanent neurological changes from cocaine use... at least, not of the kind that you are after. Even if your stimulants accomplish what you hope, you will have achieved nothing at all beyond a host of problems as the fallout."</p><p>Sherlock scoffs again, flicking his gaze away. <em>What would you know? You've never done anything stronger than nicotine. </em></p><p>"I've also never done anything as ill-advised as what you're contemplating."</p><p><em>You set off a civil war in... </em>He stops, furiously racking through his brain for the required sign, then just gives up and spells it out instead.<em> L-I-B-Y-A. </em></p><p>"So you do pay attention to politics. Fantastic. Perhaps there's hope for you joining MI6 yet."</p><p>He rolls his eyes, once again keeping his hands locked in his lap. Mycroft would sooner quit and retire to Sussex. Sherlock would sooner kill himself.</p><p><em>Why do you care?</em> He slumps even deeper into his chair, trying to pull off an annoyed, unbothered sulk, but underneath it all he is only unsettled. He hasn't seen Mycroft this angry in years. And for what? A temporary relapse? One experimental hit, just to see what happens?</p><p>He is so tired of this. He is so tired of being made to spell out what he wants, each and every sentence reduced into something as slow as dripping and congealed syrup, his mind already skipped ten sentences ahead while he fumbles on translating just one like a child. He is so tired of the painstaking effort it all takes only to look up and realise there's nobody in the room that can understand what he's so worked so hard to say. He is so tired of having all of this madness building and locked inside his head and no matter how desperately he wants to let it out, there is no door. It pounds against the walls like a storm of bats and scratches and howls and he wants to <em>let it out </em>and he <em><b>can't.</b></em></p><p>Mycroft watches him in silence for what feels like too long. The anger has faded, tempered by what Sherlock has said, and for a moment he even looks immeasurably sad.</p><p>Sherlock doesn't care. He's still <em>here, </em>and he's not <em>helping.</em></p><p>"Is it not enough that you are my brother, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks, tilting his head to the side. He looks at him with naked sympathy, and it is disgusting beyond measure. But it is sympathy. It is genuine sympathy and it makes him feel more exposed than anything else ever could've. "Sentimental affection, for the only remotely intelligent individual I have the displeasure of sharing this city with? Make it out to selfishness, if you will... my life would be considerably dimmer if you were not in it."</p><p>Sherlock really must make for an alarming mess, if he's provoked Mycroft to talk like <em>this. </em>It's positively hateful, and worse than that, embarrassing.</p><p>They don't talk like this, he and Mycroft. As a rule, they don't talk like this. Sentiment and brotherly affection. This is not who they are.</p><p>He starts to comment derisively, to tell Mycroft that perhaps he ought to just get himself a goldfish. But Mycroft has his back turned before he's halfway through the sentence, back in the kitchen with the flour and the cocaine and the tea, and that means Sherlock is now stuck signing until he's blue in the face, because nobody's listening.</p><p>He's tired of this, too.</p><p>He's tired of not having anything to say, and he's tired of the fact that nobody's listening to him even if he tries.</p><p>He's tired of the fact that he can compose all night long, but his brain still short-circuits and his fingers freeze solid the moment he tries to pick up his violin.</p><p>Mycroft moves to the kitchen instead, his back still to Sherlock. His hand passes over where the bag of flour sits, hidden away in the cabinet, lingers for a moment, then moves to the kettle instead. "Yes, I know. Sentiment is a defect in the losing side, Sherlock. I'm well aware, brother mine... that does not make voluntary. As you very well know."</p><p>So he intends to stay, then. He is making tea, and straightening up, and-- <em>staying. </em>He is making himself at home and here he intends to stay as his minder, on until John gets home and he no longer needs one.</p><p>Sherlock hurls himself miserably onto his side, tucked into the tightest ball that he can with his back to the room and his <em>irritating nuisance </em>of a brother. He wants to shout at Mycroft. He wants to bodily throw him from the flat, shouting at him down every step of the stairs, and shout at him from the kerb and chase him off Baker Street with his voice alone.</p><p>He can't do any of those things, so all he can do is let the needle fall to the floor instead. He listens to its empty clatter in a defeat that eats him from the inside out and he <em>hates it. </em></p><p>He can't even do cocaine right, anymore.</p><p>What an absolute disgrace.</p><p>It's his violin. <em>His. </em>He's played it longer than he's been able to talk (though, admittedly, this is because this is not the first time he has lost his voice. Laryngitis. Experiments. Redbeard. Et cetera). It is <em>his </em>violin, his notes and scales that he has spent decades carving into his head, his bow, his music. And now he can't touch it.</p><p>It's for the best anyway, he thinks. Still curled up there and looking pathetic. His violin, while under the influence of drugs, sounds absolutely disastrous. It's the screeching of a cat beat against the walls and it's out of tune screeching at that. He's recorded it once, for the sake of science, and never again.</p><p>He hates this.</p><p>"If my earlier answers displease you so," Mycroft murmurs. There's the clink of china as he just makes himself at home, in what he so often affectionately describes as his dump of a flat. Sherlock thinks that if he hates it so much, he knows where the door is. "Then take all of this as my version of an apology, instead. Whatever makes you happiest."</p><p>Sherlock furrows his brow. An apology?</p><p>It's enough for him to squirm back around, frowning at Mycroft sideways. He is of the opinion that Mycroft has much to apologise for, most notably being a Meddling, Nosy Tosser that Meddles. But Mycroft disagrees on that note. So what is it that he thinks he has to apologise for?</p><p>Mycroft sighs, long and heavy, when Sherlock's eyes go back to meet his own. "I was not able to find you until it was much too late for it to matter. Then my agents botched the extraction mission, and managed to kill every <em>single </em>one of the team responsible. In the intervening months since, it appear the only assistance I have been able to provide is in keeping as far from you as possible. Preventing you from injecting trash into your veins, at least while John is unavailable, is..." He pauses, pressing his fist gently against his mouth. "This is perhaps the very least that I can do for you, little brother."</p><p>It takes him a hatefully slow moment to even nudge his brain into understanding what Mycroft is trying to say. When it does click, it's with an uncomfortable heat rising in his cheeks, and he rolls his eyes again, lowering his face to tuck it behind his knees.</p><p>
  <em>I do not need your protection. </em>
</p><p>"No," Mycroft says, with a pointed look. "Perhaps not. That does not mean I don't sorely wish to provide it."</p><p>He swallows dryly again, his stomach in knots and his hands still clammy, an itching desire just underneath the surface for the stimulation that is right within arm's reach. He looks away from Mycroft again, glaring sickly at the way he takes up space in John's chair.</p><p>It is all true. He can blame Mycroft for a great many things, but how this case had first played out has never been one of them. It was his own missteps. His own failure. His own decisions, that, as he has told John, he would make again.</p><p>As Mycroft so often enjoys to remind him, he can't keep relying on big brother to come along and clean up his messes.</p><p>"Shortcuts spell the way to failure, Sherlock," Mycroft says, when he has evidently decided the silence has gone on long enough. His words carry a distinctive and decisive air of finality, and he sets his tea down on the table with a faint <em>clink</em>. "And cocaine is a shortcut. It will do nothing for you. I also know that while my opinions will always be completely discounted, you are aware that John shares this particular one. There is nothing to be gained by doing this to yourself, and nothing to be gained by doing it to him, either."</p><p>Sherlock thinks he does not mention enough, how much he both loves and hates his brother.</p><hr/><p>Mycroft stays with him until John gets home. Sherlock can not honestly say if it is necessary, or appreciated.</p><p>He comes up the stairs like a soldier into a warzone, his each and every step radiating tension that they can both hear even from all the way upstairs. "Mycroft," John starts, standing stock still in the doorway and staring between the two of the them with a wariness that suggests he worries a bomb might go off in the flat. He looks ready to throw a punch.</p><p>The needle has already been salvaged from the floor, and the ashtray washed out. The cocaine is still in the flour. A silent test, of sorts-- Mycroft forcing him to bin it on his own. He refuses to take that last step for him, knowing Sherlock must take it himself.</p><p>"John," Mycroft greets, up on his feet with a click of his umbrella. He nods at Sherlock, still balled in his chair, and slides past John in the doorway like a snake. "Good afternoon, then."</p><p>"After... noon..." John blinks dazedly, looking utterly flummoxed. His fist is still curled by his side, and it's absolutely lovely.</p><p>He wastes no time in crossing to Sherlock's side, bolting across the room the very moment he determines the flat to be Mycroft-free. "Are you okay?" he demands, one hand settling protectively on his shoulder while the other thrusts the curtain back, John leaning to watch as the long, black car of secrets drives away. "What the hell did he want? I swear, if he tried to pull anything while I wasn't here--"</p><p>Sherlock tugs on his hand, reeling John back in. He hates it, but he has to wait, still. Wait for John to be looking at him, his eyes creased with concern and his the corner of his mouth tight the way it is when he wants to punch someone. Tight and worn and very kissable. <em>I'm okay,</em> he signs, still sideways. <em>Work.</em></p><p>It takes John a few moments, his hands slowly repeating the last sign on his own. "Work... a case? He had a case for you?"</p><p>Sherlock traps John's arm back against his chest, nodding around it. <em>I'm okay, </em>he repeats into the warm skin. He scratches the checkmark into his hand, and as much as he loathes the need for it as a safe word, he's grateful for it now.</p><p>He's okay.</p><p>It takes another slow, few moments, everything shifting like molasses. John frowns at him, letting Sherlock to play absently with his fingers. He can tell something isn't right, but he can also tell that nothing is desperately wrong.</p><p>"If you're sure," he gives finally. He glances back at the door, still wary and protective. "Really. I know we called something of a truce, a few months ago, but I never got to make him eat his bloody umbrella for before. If you want me to I definitely will."</p><p>Sherlock curls himself even tighter around the curve of John's arm, pressing his cheek to the muscle of it. He can not help it; he laughs, he smiles and swallows and silently laughs into his arm, and he feels even lighter when John finally softens to smile back.</p><p>He does not mention enough, how much he both loves and hates his brother. He also definitely does not mention enough how much he absolutely <em>adores </em>John Watson.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>Next chapter is a bit more of a filler one for some good old-fashioned hurt/comfort, to give a rest between all these important ones. Then, it'll be time for the last hurrah!</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. III: Scream and then Silence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all the kudos/comments!!!</p><p>Now, let's try labelling the chapter right this time and not falling prey to the backdate bug... annnd, onwards!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In retrospect, John should've seen it coming.</p><p>Sherlock is bored, of course. Sherlock is bored, and restless, and twitchy, and growing even more bored and restless and twitchy by the day. It was doable, when his body was still broken, and no matter how twitchy he was he could barely make it down the stairs without John's help. It stopped being doable, when the final cast and restriction came off, and John was handed back one very stiff, very sore, very quiet boyfriend, who was so desperate for something to do that he insisted upon walking the two miles home.</p><p>John has no idea what the hell he's meant to do.</p><p>Experiments will only keep a restless Sherlock occupied for so long, and they passed that line more than several weeks ago, well before he was in any sort of state to go leaving the flat. Now Sherlock is suffocatingly bored, and looks at his microscope look like it has just personally insulted his mother. Or his coat. He is angry, his face furious and his temper on a knife's edge, and he stomps around the flat and doesn't sleep or eat or speak. He turns away private clients, because he proclaims that his brain rots into mush in the time it takes John to translate out one sentence of what he wants to say. He is in constant pain.</p><p>Which is why John is completely and utterly sandbagged, when one morning Sherlock prances right up to his feet, ducks into his coat, and texts to John one single word:</p><p>
  <em>CASE</em>
</p><p>It's not a good idea. It is, in fact, a horrible idea. Sherlock is not ready for a case. Sherlock still can't <em>speak, </em>and John doesn't even know why. Why the hell did Lestrade think he was ready for a case... and why the hell does Sherlock want to go?</p><p>What does he think he's going to do?</p><p>Mime the deductions out with interpretative dance?</p><p>And either John gets dressed to go with him right now, or Sherlock goes on his own.</p><p>And in retrospect--</p><p>"What the <em>hell-" </em>Lestrade stammers. He nearly drops his cup of coffee right there on the floor, open-mouthed and aghast from where he stands by the door to the old house, speaking with another officer. He gapes at Sherlock as the beanpole ducks under the tape, making up for the stiffness and lingering limp by walking as fast as he can, completely ignoring the both of them, and John is left to drive to a stunned halt.</p><p>"You didn't text him."</p><p>"No! Of course not! I-" Lestrade yanks out his phone, as if it might've magically texted Sherlock of its own accord. It has not, of course. There is no text, to or from Sherlock. "You told me not to, not until he was feeling better! You said he's only taking cold cases for now!"</p><p>Yes. He had. <em>John </em>had said that.</p><p>And apparently, Sherlock had disagreed.</p><p>In retrospect...</p><p>He <em>really </em>should've seen this coming.</p><p>Sherlock moves around the crime scene looking <em>inexcusably </em>proud of himself. He beams at John the second he appears in the doorway, like a smug and naughty teenage boy, and-- <em>damn it, </em>this is not fair. This is far and beyond the happiest Sherlock has looked in three months, and he's doing it at a crime scene he's not supposed to be at, his mouth all but glued shut, and where John has no choice but to stand here and let him do it.</p><p>What's he supposed to do? Drag him off to a cab? Yeah, sure, that'll end well. Get Lestrade to throw them out? Yeah. Sure. That'll end <em>real </em>well. Yell at Sherlock for-- what did he even <em>do? </em>Log into Greg's email from his chair, hack into NSY? Whatever he did, yelling at him for it won't accomplish anything helpful whatsoever. They will still be sitting here, at this crime scene that Sherlock can not vocally deduce, on a crime Sherlock is not physically well enough to investigate.</p><p>The only option he has is to stand there in the doorway, radiating annoyance and disapproval, and do what he can to make sure none of this gets out of control.</p><p>Sherlock knows he disapproves, obviously. It just so happens that he also really doesn't care.</p><p>Sherlock flits on about the room, pocket magnifier in one hand and phone in the other. Clearly, he has already made his plans: he's just not going to speak at all. He's just going to carry out his deductions all in his head, and only pass them on when finalised to their end conclusion. It makes for an uncomfortable silence for John, but the other officers and techs, when Sherlock does not immediately prance into the spotlight, just ignore him. It's been long enough that some of them are new, and don't know him; the ones that do might not know the reason for the silence, but are clearly only too relieved for it.</p><p>John folds his arms tighter, and watches.</p><p>It is abundantly clear that Sherlock is in no shape for this. The casts and bandages might be gone, but he is not fully healed, and it shows. He can not drop to his knees and spring back up and lean on his tip toes to examine some microscopic spot on the ceiling. He can not move as quickly as he wants, and John isn't the only one to see that he's stiff and in pain.</p><p>And he still hasn't said a single bloody word.</p><p>He's not ready for this.</p><p>
  <em>We shouldn't fucking be here. </em>
</p><p>Sherlock stands up in a somewhat sad impersonation of his usual bounce to his feet, one leg staggering and his face in a tight grimace. John would be a tad more sympathetic, if they weren't here <em>entirely </em>of Sherlock's accord.</p><p><em>"Hey," </em>he mutters, catching him by the arm. Sherlock tries to ignore him and pass on by, and John tightens his grip, his fingers digging into the crook of his elbow. "No. You listen to me, Sherlock. You're not doing anything beyond this scene. Okay? I know you want to be, but you are not ready for it. So help me I will drag you to the cab myself if you make me, Sherlock; nod your head. Tell me you understand."</p><p>Somewhat unsurprisingly, Sherlock's only answer is to roll his bright blue eyes. He's not taking it seriously, because he doesn't take nearly <em>anything </em>seriously, but John means it. Sherlock is still hurt and if he tries to go gallivanting across the city, he will get hurt worse. John is not going to let that happen.</p><p>"I'm serious, Sherlock. Nod your head or I'm leaving right now and you're coming with me."</p><p>Sherlock exhales an irritated breath, rolling his eyes heavenward. Once again, he is as put out and annoyed as an exasperated teenager. He nods his head exactly once, giving John a look that drips with condescension.</p><p>John lets his arm go, and Sherlock waltzes free to jump up the stairs instead.</p><p>John groans.</p><p>So today's going well, then.</p><p>He decides very quickly that the best place for him to be is at the door to the old house, so if Sherlock tries to follow an evidence trail right outside, John will be there to catch him. Unless he tries to skip out the window instead, stiff back and quivering legs be dammed. John doesn't put it past him. But no matter what Sherlock's plans are, John clearly is of no help, just watching him silently deduce things and keeping it all stuffed into his own head.</p><p>He runs into Lestrade on the way to the door, and the inspector only needs to take one look at him to wince in sympathy.</p><p>"Hey, I really am sorry about this. I didn't--"</p><p>"It's not your fault, Greg. Although maybe you should update your passwords." John pauses, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "We both know if Sherlock wants in on a case, he finds a way."</p><p>"...Right." Lestrade hesitates, glancing up the stairs after to where Sherlock has disappeared. He clearly is unsure of what to say, the situation not one that exactly lends itself to easy explanation, and he chews on his pen. "So, he's still..."</p><p>John nods gruffly, gritting his teeth. He doesn't answer beyond that.</p><p>Yes. He still can't speak. Yes, they still don't have an answer as to why.</p><p>Lestrade hasn't been around much, by virtue of Sherlock not wanting it. The only person to have really seen much of Sherlock since he's lost his voice has been Mrs. Hudson, because not even Sherlock can not tell her no. Mycroft makes appearances whenever he pleases, and everyone else, Sherlock is not shy about shooing them away. He had accepted a box of cold cases from Lestrade, back when he had first come home, and has since refused anything more. He does not want to be seen like this.</p><p>Which makes it all the more baffling to John, that Sherlock has willingly jumped at the opportunity to force himself into a crime scene.</p><p>"So. If he's still-- then--" Lestrade swallows audibly, fishing for the words. He clearly doesn't know how to talk about it or how to call it. "I'm sure it's obvious to him, I guess, but if he can't-- <em>talk</em>, then. How exactly is he supposed to consult here?"</p><p>There's a loud thump from upstairs. John can only imagine whatever the hell Sherlock's doing up there. Not something that someone who is still meant to be <em>taking it easy </em>should be busy with.</p><p>"I don't know," he says, still frowning at the ceiling. "He doesn't talk to me, either. I'm guessing I'll get a paragraph long text from him in a few and he'll expect me to translate it for you."</p><p>Lestrade grins faintly, nodding once. He looks exasperated but still fond, the absolute disaster of a detective still causing him no end of trouble but he's still willing to deal with it, if it's what it takes to help Sherlock right now. When he so clearly needs it so much, while at the same time despising every attempt any makes to try and make things easier for him. Any other DI probably would've tossed a mute Sherlock off their crime scene ten minutes ago, and John is grateful that Lestrade hasn't.</p><p>But John doesn't get to find out, whatever Lestrade is about to say next.</p><p>There's another thump from upstairs, louder than before. John shares a perturbed look with Lestrade, already heading towards the stairs together, and John doesn't know what he's imagining-- how much trouble can Sherlock really get into alone up there? Tripping over a sofa? He has no idea, but it's just noisy enough that he can tell he needs to get up there.</p><p>It's when they start on the stairs together, that he starts to hear it.</p><p>There are voices, upstairs. One of them certainly not Sherlock's; the cockney accent, and higher than his low-pitched baritone, saying something that's just a hair too quiet for John to make out the words. Irritated and annoyed, not trying to be quiet.</p><p>And then the other--</p><p>He can't hear it. It's too soft, but there's something there. Something about it--</p><p>Urgency spikes through John as instantly as a shot of adrenaline, and he bolts up the rest of the stairs, two of the time.</p><p>What he finds makes his brain short-circuit.</p><p>If he were Sherlock, he'd probably have deduced everything that was going on, right then and there, and in that one instant of looking at the scene. If he was anybody else other than himself, he'd have taken just a few moments to observe what was going on, and figured it out, and defused the situation as best he could.</p><p>Instead, what John sees is Sherlock, pinned down on his stomach, a uniformed constable holding him there with a heavy knee and his arms cuffed behind his back. His left arm in particular is bent further than he knows the barely healed fracture can tolerate, and there's a scrape on his face that says he didn't go down easy.</p><p>But the wide-eyed vacant look of sheer <em>terror </em>on Sherlock's face is what makes John's world invert, pulse, and contract down to a needle point of fury.</p><p>"Found this bloke skulking around the crime scene," the officer is saying, "wouldn't say who--"</p><p>Instead, what John does is this:</p><p>
  <em>"GET OFF OF HIM!"</em>
</p><p>John collides into him, and he doesn't know anything at all beyond the slam of his fist into his jaw. He punches him in the face once, and then again, and he just goes <em>down. </em>He goes down so easily John knows the only reason he'd gotten the better of Sherlock at all is because Sherlock is still one six foot collection of healing scars and soreness and physical therapy, and that makes John hit him right in the fucking face for the third time.</p><p><em>"What were you thinking?! </em>What did you <em>do </em>to him?! <em>Shut up! </em>Shut <em>up, </em>don't you <em>dare-" </em>He hauls the officer up by the collar, a split lip and wide, shocked eyes, and all he can see is the look on Sherlock's face, pinned down and terrified on the filthy floor. "You didn't notice you were hurting him?! <em>Hm?! </em>Shut the fuck up, don't you <em>dare</em> defend yourself, you--"</p><p>
  <em>"John!"</em>
</p><p>John is so furious it takes two tries for him to even hear Lestrade at all, and he still does not care. He does not care that he just assaulted an officer right in front of Lestrade and he does not care that he wants to do it again. He wants to make him feel every bit of pain and fear that he just did to Sherlock.</p><p>He's so fucking <em>angry </em>that he's just about to cock his fist back for the fourth time, when he hears it.</p><p>A low, throaty whine. It's faint and leaky, and broken by little hiccups of breath, a voice that is desperately hoarse with disuse but still a voice. A voice. Sherlock's voice.</p><p>Sherlock is screaming.</p><p>Trying to.</p><p>Lestrade is on the floor behind him, one hand reached out to him while the other tries to reach for Sherlock but is frozen in midair; the stricken look on his face spells out exactly how little he knows what to do. Sherlock himself is tucked as far away from them all as he can get. It reminds John of that night in the hospital, the first time he'd woken up, and his only instinct had been to make himself as small as possible. To hide in the further corner and tuck himself into the tightest space.</p><p>That is what he has done now, huddled back into dusty corner, trying to scream. For help, in pain, for John. His arms are still stuck behind him and he protects himself with his knees, but the look on his face is vacant still-- his body is there, but Sherlock himself is not. Sherlock himself is far, far away, locked himself deep in his palace where it's safe. Because he is not safe here anymore.</p><p>"Sherlock," Lestrade tries, his face ashen. "Come on, lad, with me--"</p><p>Sherlock is not listening. Sherlock can not hear him, and even if he could, a conversation is clearly far away from what he's capable of right now.</p><p>"I'll do it," John rasps. "Give me the keys. Now!" It takes the inspector a moment to connect the dots, realising the handcuffs and Sherlock's still pinned hands, and John only moves off the stunned officer on still on the ground when Lestrade drops his keys in his hand. "And get <em>him </em>out of here, because if you don't I will not be responsible for what happens next."</p><p>"Sir--" One arm squirms under his grip, the same arm that had pinned Sherlock's hands. "Sir, he was--"</p><p>"I don't want to hear it. Get up. Get up, <em>now.</em>"</p><p>There's other noises from behind him then, Lestrade taking the officer and bringing him roughly down the stairs, his voice rising, angry voices and shouting. John blocks it all out without a second thought.</p><p>Because Sherlock is still trembling in the corner, rasping a wretched, breathless whine of a scream, broken up by involuntary gasps of pain and anguish, and oh, <em><b>god.</b></em></p><p>It is the first sound Sherlock has made. This, right here, is the first sound that Sherlock has made. And it is him trying to scream. He's screaming, because he's <em>terrified.</em></p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>"Sherlock. Sherlock." John edges closer, crouched across from him on the hard, rough floor. He's still so <em>fucking angry </em>and he keeps it out of his voice with every fiber of his being. "Are you with me? It's all right, it's only me. It's John. Take a deep breath, now."</p><p>Sherlock does not respond. He does not give any sign that he is in any way aware of John at all. He just presses back against his corner, panting in whines through clenched teeth, his blue eyes wet, blown wide, and staring at something that is not in this room.</p><p>John knows the very last thing he should do right now is touch Sherlock. But he also knows the way his arm is pinned behind him is causing him no small amount of pain, and it would be unbearably cruel, to make Sherlock have to fight through not only his own fear but that pain as well, to make it back to him. "It's okay," he says again, turning through the keys; his hands are clammy but steady and he's so <em>mad </em>he can barely see straight. "I'm going to touch your arm now, Sherlock. Right here. This is me. Sorry, I know it hurts; you'll feel better in just a tick."</p><p>He's careful, as he removes the handcuffs. Careful to hold Sherlock's still recuperating arm in place, careful not to throw the fucking things to clatter noisily against the floor, careful to talk him through it, keeping his voice confident, reassuring, and calm. Above all, John is careful to watch Sherlock's wet face, searching for some sign that this is too much for him, or that what John is doing is scaring him, but there is nothing there. There is <em>nothing. </em></p><p>This isn't normal. This isn't typical behavior, for a flashback. This isn't just a panic attack. Sherlock is completely unresponsive, and has been so now for several minutes.</p><p>This is not <em>normal.</em></p><p>"I'm going to move your arm now," he promises, and he does, keeping the limb as still as possible as he guides it out from behind Sherlock's back. A whimper catches in Sherlock's throat, high pitched before it cracks, and John rubs the inside of his wrist. "Shh, shh, there we go. I know it hurts, just breathe. Deep breath, now." Sherlock's breaths hitch, and it's impossible to say if he was trying to follow the instruction or not. "There you go. You're doing so well, Sherlock. That's it. Just stay still for me..."</p><p>There's no more he can do now, not without stripping him out of his coat and shirt, and he can't do that, not with Sherlock like this. He holds the limb absolutely still and rubs his shoulder and oh, <em>god, </em>why isn't he waking up. "Sherlock?" He touches his face, the red scrape at being thrown to the floor, but it's only that, a scrape. His wild hair isn't hiding anything, either; he's not finding any lumps or bruises that could answer where he's gone. "Sherlock, <em>shhh, </em>don't do that, it's okay. You're okay. Just take another deep breath, all right? Deep breath, come on, love, with me. Sweetheart. <em>Sherlock."</em></p><p>The frantic gasps for air dwindle, now that Sherlock's arm is no longer stressed behind his back. The tiny, hoarse whines from his throat do not. And John may've spent three months desperately wishing for nothing more than for Sherlock to speak, but screaming on the floor of a crime scene is not ever what he had meant, and that is what this is, no matter how little his rough, disused voice sounds like it. This is not healthy. This is not <em>good.</em></p><p>He keeps up his meant to be soothing litany of what is probably babbling nonsense. Gently coaxing Sherlock back to him, with endearments and soft praise, because Sherlock absorbs praise like a sponge. It works, very slowly, Sherlock's heart still thundering beneath his hand, but it's all John can do. And it's not enough. It will never be anywhere near enough.</p><p>They'd had a prescription for a strong anti-anxiety medication, to be taken as needed. Sherlock, in his infinite wisdom, has refused to fill it.</p><p>John now wishes he'd gone behind his back and filled the damn thing anyway.</p><p>He shouldn't have hit the officer. He realises that now, staring at where his knuckles are red and sore, wrapped around Sherlock's thin wrist. There's a lot of people at fault for this, but he shares perhaps the least of the blame. He was only doing his job, and Greg should've made sure everyone at the scene knew Sherlock's face before allowing a man that couldn't speak in his own defense to prance around the old house. John should've made sure to keep a closer watch. <em>Sherlock </em>shouldn't have shown up here without warning, damn it, without actually giving Greg the chance to brief his team.</p><p>John doesn't want to blame Sherlock, right now.</p><p>Sherlock is not exactly up to talking, so John has to watch him, waiting for the light to shift in his eyes. When it finally comes, it's like breaking the surface, oxygen after hours of dust and suffocation, and John beams.</p><p>"There he is. Come on. Back to me, Sherlock."</p><p>Sherlock breathes in raggedly, a deep and shocked inhale. His pale eyes lock with John's, but only for a moment, and his face contorts in the next second, one hand cradling his shoulder in agony. His pain is open-mouthed, but silent.</p><p>This, at least, is a pain that John is very familiar with. "Yeah, I know it hurts. It's all right. You only strained it." He helps to support his arm with one hand, carefully palming his cheek with the other. He's flushed and hot and sweating. "We'll get an ice pack at home."</p><p>John very much wants to get Sherlock home right now.</p><p>He gives Sherlock a few more seconds to catch his breath, the detective still refusing to meet his eyes. He sits with him and waits, allowing the tight squeeze of Sherlock's fingers in his hand. <em>It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here. I'm here.</em></p><p>"Good," he reassures, when Sherlock's bright eyes finally focus. He still won't look at John, and his face is reddening by the second, so John returns his attentions to his arm, trying to give him those few moments. "It's all right. You just got a little rattled, is all. But you're okay now. Yes?" He squeezes Sherlock's good hand again, giving him something to hold onto. "Just take it easy for a bit, Sherlock. You're all right."</p><p>He's not all right at all. They can both see it.</p><p>But John will do his damn best to see to it that he is.</p><p>They sit on the floor together for a few minutes, John carefully steadying Sherlock while Sherlock looks anywhere but at him. Sherlock, clearly, is in pain, embarrassed, and humiliated. He doesn't want to be here anymore, and all the officers between them and the cars outside are a minefield that he doesn't have it in him to traverse. He still can't seem to bring himself to look at John.</p><p>John cradles his arm and strokes his hair, and silently seethes.</p><p>Today has gone about as badly as it could've possibly ended.</p><p>There are footsteps on the stairs behind them. John, for one moment, Sherlock still shivering in his arms and whiter than his shirt, is more than ready to shout at whoever the fuck it is to get the hell out.</p><p>But it's only Greg that comes around the corner, tense and worried and looking at Sherlock in outright concern. Sherlock, in answer, looks as if he wants to vomit.</p><p>"John," he starts, his gaze flicking to Sherlock. "Is he all right?"</p><p>He's not. He's obviously fucking not. "We're going home." For once, John is glad that Sherlock can't speak-- there is no room here for argument. "Sorry about the case. Greg, you think you can give us a ride?"</p><p>"Yeah. Yeah, of course--"</p><p>Sherlock jerks backward against the wall, rattling against it so loudly they both jump. At first John thinks something's frightened him again, but when he starts to move closer Sherlock reels back a second time, shaking his head.</p><p>"Sherlock. Come on, try to relax. Take another breath. I know you're in pain, there's nothing we can do for that here--"</p><p>He shakes his head again, panting and desperate. He lets John hold his arm and swipes at his eyes with the other, rubbing his sleeve over his face, each breath a wince and a whimper. It hurts more than John can take. "What's <em>wrong?" </em>he pleads, again squeezing his hands, "Sherlock, talk to me," but he <em>can't, </em>and that's the problem--</p><p>Sherlock tries to sign something. But his hands are shaking and he still can't properly move his left arm, wincing badly every time he tries. John tries to keep his arm still but it's not working, and whatever he wants so badly to say isn't coming out.</p><p>"What's he saying?" Greg presses, coming closer himself. "John?"</p><p>"I don't know. I can't understand him. Sherlock, please, slow down-- damn it, you're going to hurt yourself--"</p><p>But Sherlock doesn't slow down. If anything, he gets even more agitated, and no matter how calmly and steadily John speaks, it doesn't calm him down. He keeps trying to sign no matter how much it hurts him, and it's clear he's not in any state to listen. He never calmed down properly at all, not after being manhandled and pinned down and hurt by that <em>idiot, </em>and the dusty floor while surrounded by Greg and John and his arm in an incredible amount of pain is obviously not going to cut it.</p><p>"Can you write? Do you think?" John tries to press his phone into Sherlock's shaking hand, but the detective lets it drop to the floor, too upset to listen. "Come on, Sherlock, take another breath... we don't understand what you want--"</p><p>But whatever it is that has him so upset, he just can't communicate it. John worries that that's exactly the problem. This all happened because some sodding bastard took him by surprise, he wasn't able to communicate, and got assaulted because of it. The fact that he can't communicate <em>is</em> what's wrong. He doesn't want to have to slow down and write, he doesn't want to have to force his shaking hands to wrap around a touch screen.</p><p>He's so upset because he's trying <em>so very hard</em> to say what's wrong, and nobody can hear him.</p><p>He desperately wants to get Sherlock out of here.</p><p>There are more steps on the stairs behind them, and John grits his teeth, put even more on edge. He doesn't care that this is a crime scene. The very last thing Sherlock needs right now is more people.</p><p>He expects the neutral face of one of Lestrade's other officers to appear in the doorway. He does not expect to see Sally Donovan, quietly emerging around the frame.</p><p>John's blind temper hitches up another notch.</p><p>If she has so much as one <em>single</em> thing to say to Sherlock, then that's it. He's done. If she opens her mouth and even starts to say the word <em>freak,</em> then he will not be responsible for what happens next.</p><p>"Sir," she starts, her eyes passing over Sherlock in very obvious discomfort. She seems to want to be here even less than he does. "They're asking what to do downstairs. They need to know what to do with the body."</p><p>"You can take it. I'm sorry, but I'm a bit busy right now, Donovan."</p><p>It's an obvious dismissal, and John couldn't be more grateful. He understands Greg needs to allow certain latitudes from her-- she <em>is </em>a good officer, and Sherlock <em>is </em>a smart-mouthed provocateur and a bastard that gives as good as he gets-- but there's a time and a place. Now is not it.</p><p>The inspector starts for Sherlock's right side, leaving John to keep a hold on his injured arm. "Can you stand?" he tries gently, but Sherlock yanks his hand out of his grip as if burned. "Sunshine--"</p><p>He signs furiously. He signs furiously and desperately in-between deep gasps and looking worse and worse when it is clear nobody can understand him.</p><p>John <em>hates it.</em></p><p>He couldn't do anything to protect Sherlock. He couldn't do anything to go after the people that had done this to him after the fact. And now he can't even be there for him in the aftermath, because he's not a bloody one in a million genius able to pick up an entirely new language in just a matter of weeks.</p><p>He wants so <em>badly </em>to keep Sherlock safe and cared for and happy, and he <em>can't.</em></p><p>"...What are you <em>doing?"</em></p><p>John grits his teeth again, his hand fisting in Sherlock's sleeve. He starts to turn on Donovan to order her to <em>go the fuck away, </em>because surely even <em>she </em>can bother to read the god damn room--</p><p>But Donovan is not looking at Lestrade.</p><p>She is looking at Sherlock.</p><p>Sherlock catches sight of her attention and moans silently, tilting his miserable face back against the wall. He tries to sign something else, distinctly, sickeningly unhappy.</p><p>"No," Donovan says, stepping further into the room, "I will not. This is my crime scene and my job, not yours. Assuming you were trying to tell me to <em>go away, </em>because that's not actually what you said."</p><p>The entire room, just about, blinks together as one. Even Sherlock manages to stop panting, his upset ground to a halt with shock instead.</p><p>When Sherlock does not repeat his order for her to go away, his hands instead fumbling through something else with even less confidence than before, Donovan enters fully into the room. She does still look a bit impatient, but drops to her knees in front of him, taking his hands in her own. "Like this," she explains, "hold your fingers straight. No, <em>straight. </em>And you might want to avoid signing until you can fully use both hands. Not that you care, but this is a very easy way to insult someone."</p><p>Sherlock, and John with him, stare in disbelief.</p><p>Donovan smiles tightly back, sitting on her heels. "My sister was born deaf," she says to John, clearly not an invitation to inquire more, and turns her gaze back down to Sherlock.</p><p>Oh. Well. All right, then.</p><p>Sherlock has found himself an anchor. He breathes easier and slower, his bright eyes still wide and a little startled, but now given a way forward he's finally able to actually think and slow his hands down. He has found an anchor, and it is not in John and Greg, trying their very hardest but ultimately he might as well have been just babbling to a brick wall, but <em>Donovan.</em></p><p>John swallows hard, tamping down on the little sting of jealously, and forces himself to watch.</p><p>They go through a few more exchanges, Donovan's vocal responses somewhat cryptic and unhelpful as she continues to tug Sherlock's hands into place. After a few back and forths, she frowns, letting go. "There is absolutely no evidence that the scene was staged."</p><p>Sherlock wriggles his hand again, trying (and failing) to pull his left one from John's. His face is irritated now, but still calm, and Donovan rolls her eyes. "I've seen blood spatter like that before. That doesn't mean anything."</p><p>As the two go on, the pieces click in John's head. Sherlock had been trying to talk about the crime scene, before. That was what he had been trying so hard to say, and so angry and upset that he hadn't been understood.</p><p>For a moment, John wants to just tug Sherlock up right now and get him down to Greg's police car. He does not <em>care </em>about this scene, he does not <em>care </em>about the two dead bodies downstairs, he cares about the man who is still alive and in his arms right now, a sheen of sweat gleaming on his forehead, his shoulder and face swelling as they speak, and his heart hammering a sprint underneath John's careful hands. They can do this <em>later.</em></p><p>But Sherlock clearly does not want to do this later.</p><p>And as they go on, Sherlock fumbling to talk and Donovan struggling to translate, John thinks he understands. It is the entire reason Sherlock had manipulated and schemed him out to this scene today in the first place. Sherlock knows he is still hurt, and he knows he is still struggling-- just as much as he knows he probably will continue to be, for a very long time. John has refused to let himself acknowledge this. He's refused to look at Sherlock's inability to speak as anything more than a temporary problem, because... because<em> of course </em>it is. This is Sherlock Holmes. He won't be taken down by something like this, the very idea is ludicrous--</p><p>But Sherlock is not getting better. This is not <em>going away. </em>Not at the snap of his fingers and drop of his hat that he wants it to.</p><p>And he wants to prove that he can still have this. Voice or no, hurting or not, Sherlock wants-- <em>needs-- </em>the proof that he can still have his work. He can still be who he is.</p><p>John swallows again, and forces himself to keep his mouth shut.</p><p>
  <em>This is okay.</em>
</p><p>Donovan at last raises her hands, giving up the fight. "All right, <em>all right. </em>I'll take a look downstairs. But if I don't find anything I'm dropping your theory and going with mine, okay?"</p><p>Sherlock smirks faintly. He does not move his hands this time, and he doesn't have to. They can all hear what he means, clear as day.</p><p>
  <em>You will find something.</em>
</p><p>This, John takes as his cue.</p><p>"Come on," he says, squeezing his hand tightly. "Good work. You did your job, Mr. Consulting Detective. Now it's time to go home."</p><p>Sherlock resists again, trying to squirm, but John is not going to let that fly this time. Greg takes the hint, grasping Sherlock's other arm to help him to his feet, and between the two of them Sherlock has no choice.</p><p>"Donovan or I will text you what happens," Greg promises, his face strained with worry. "Come on, you lunatic, <em>up."</em></p><p>Between the two of them, they manage to get a still resistant Sherlock onto his feet. He is heavy and shaking on his feet, dependent on both of them to stay upright, and Donovan takes one look before beating a hasty retreat. She is willing to be cordial to Sherlock, but seeing him like this is clearly a step too far.</p><p>But on her way out the door, she lingers just a step, hesitating just outside the frame. She opens her mouth, then stops, conflicted.</p><p>"You'll want a teacher," she says finally, clearing her throat. "Or at least someone who knows what they're doing to practice with. Anything other than what you're doing. I know you're only learning SSE, but I can still tell you're using only a textbook, and I don't care how smart you are. That's not good enough, f... Holmes." She pauses again, watching him from the door and still looking just as unhappy to see him like this as Sherlock is to be here.</p><p>Without a word, she rises a hand to her face, a thumbs up of sorts, and signs something to Sherlock, too quickly for John to catch.</p><p>Then she is out the room and down the stairs, and John is left with a silent Sherlock over his shoulder, who looks considerably better than he has all day.</p><p>"...Right, then," he announces, clearing his throat. "Off we go?"</p><p>Off they go.</p><p>Sherlock is obviously uncomfortable and embarrassed, his face slightly pink as he refuses to look at either one of them, but that's not something John can do anything about except grip his arm with medical precision and show to him that he does not care. He helps Sherlock down the stairs with Greg leading the way, shooing curious officers out of the way without hesitation. The one that had tried to arrest Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. John hopes he never sees him again.</p><p>They make it outside together, Sherlock staggering on long, trembling legs, like a nervous colt. He is in pain, with the wave of the panic attack's adrenaline now crashing, his blood sugar assuredly in the toilet, and as much as Sherlock clearly hates it and wants to pretend otherwise, he needs the help. They only somehow get down to the ground floor, and then outside after it.</p><p>The crime scene is a house in the country. It is surrounded by a bed of gravel, with the road, the police cars, and any possible taxis, nearly half a mile away. It had taken them at least five minutes of a brisk walk to reach the crime scene before. At the pace Sherlock is going at now, their ride will take at least three times that.</p><p>Sherlock staggers once, around his shoulder. He reels in place, his kneels buckling, and the look on his ashen face says very clearly that he knows it. He almost look as if he's about to start crying.</p><p>Greg shares a look with John and shakes his head, gently disengaging to leave all of Sherlock's weight on him. "I'll go get the car," he promises, already set off at a jog, and John can barely contain his relief.</p><p>Sherlock is obviously already at the end of his rope. He can not walk that far, John and Greg helping him or not.</p><p>"Here we go," John murmurs, softer now, giving Sherlock's clenched hand a light squeeze. "We'll be home soon. Come on."</p><p>Sherlock's throat swells, jumping underneath his scarf as his face reddens even more. At first, John wants to continue moving down the gravel, because slow and easy progress is better than no progress at all. But Sherlock quivers, stumbling and gone slightly glassy-eyed, and John decides a couple minutes of rest will be much more helpful than a couple steps of progress.</p><p>"It's okay," he promises, a stern grip on his arm. "Come on, over here. Another deep breath, Sherlock; with me. That's it. Perfect..."</p><p>They sit together, on the closest thing to a kerb they can find. John a little stiffly, and Sherlock, as if his legs have all but gone out from under him.</p><p>He's gone on his first case. Yes. He's proven that he doesn't need his voice to be the brilliant detective that he is.</p><p>It's also, very clearly, taken just about everything he's had to get through it, and what happened to him in that house wore him out so badly he's not up for anything more than getting back to someplace that he can feel safe.</p><p>John can at least give him that.</p><p>He keeps one secure hand on Sherlock's wrist, supporting his arm and measuring his pulse in one. It's still too fast. "We'll definitely get this on ice when we get home," he promises again, because for a moment he worries that it's just the pain. It easily could be. He's been there. He knows how <em>badly</em> physical therapy hurts. "You just want to keep it still for now, Sherlock--"</p><p>Sherlock's head drops. He just keels over, all the strength bleached out of his spine, forehead pillowed onto his knee and shoulders falling with it. He's almost grey and his eyes are as pale and cold as his skin.</p><p>It's not just the pain after all, then.</p><p>John sits for a few moments, his free hand sliding to the small of Sherlock's back. He rubs several gentle circles and Sherlock just breathes, each exhale shaking and every inhale a shallow whine.</p><p>"You did good today," he murmurs finally. "You did good. And you'll do better tomorrow."</p><p>Sherlock shakes his head against his knee, his eyes shut tight. <em>Not good enough.</em></p><p>"That man was a sodding idiot. You did more than anyone else there and you didn't even have to say a single word. You are <em>fantastic."</em> He presses his face to Sherlock's hair for a moment, breathing deeply in the scent of him. Warm and familiar and his expensive coconut shampoo. <em>Sherlock. </em>"Are you okay?"</p><p>He still sits silently. He won't look at John; he won't even lift his tired head up from his knee.</p><p>He shakes his head again, a weak rustling and wrinkle into his trousers.</p><p>
  <em>Of course he's not okay.</em>
</p><p>John folds his arm around him without waiting for anything more. Sherlock is bigger than him and unwilling to move his arm and they're sitting on rough and pointy gravel, but he pulls him into as close a hug as he can make it. He catches his fingers in his hair and nudges Sherlock's face into his shoulder, and it's a sign of just how <em>not okay </em>he really is that the man folds into him without complaint.</p><p>"You were brilliant," he whispers, his lips moving against the fringe of his hair. "You were bloody brilliant and you'll be even more brilliant tomorrow. You'll see."</p><p>Sherlock keeps his mouth shut and his face hidden, and John continues on, just like that, until Lestrade gets back with the car.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>SSE, referenced by Sally, is Signed Supported English. Standard ASL/BSL aren't just a collection of signed analogues for English, they're languages unto their own, with their own vocabulary, grammar, syntax, and structure. SSE, on the other hand, is sort of an inbetween, which copies English's structure and vocabulary. It's perfect for someone like Sherlock, who is a beginner and isn't actually involved in Deaf culture, while someone like Sally, who is, will still be able to understand him. (Thanks to the folks at the ASL subreddit who advised me about SEE, and then Moreteaplease2 on ao3 for advising me about SSE!)</p><p>Anyway, that was the last fillerish chapter. The last two are important, so hang with me-- we're almost there! :D</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. VIII: To Flip a Switch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!! ONE MORE!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are several benefits, to not being able to speak.</p><p>First and foremost among them, as Sherlock has discovered?</p><p>He tends to be ignored.</p><p>It's infuriating when he doesn't want it. He is the smartest person in the room, in <em>any </em>room, and his insight is worth several dozen times more than any of the rubbish spewed by any of these<em> average </em>people that insist upon wasting his time. But because he can not speak or make noise, it is as if the space he used to take up in a room evaporates. He doesn't exist unless he has something vocal to contribute, and it is stupid, unhelpful, and <em>maddening.</em></p><p>What, pray tell, is the <em>point</em> of learning sign language, if no one is ever even looking at him when he raises his hands to speak?</p><p>But there are benefits.</p><p>Sherlock lingers at the back of the group, smoking irritably against the wall as they all bicker amongst themselves, stupidly picking out the least-stupid way of approaching their suspect. Sherlock has several foolproof ideas, each assuredly less stupid than the ones being passed back and forth between John, Lestrade, and the others, but Donovan is not there, so nobody's asked him. Donovan doesn't tend to listen to his opinions on such questions anyway. She only barely, and with much begrudging, listens to his insights on crime scenes. She has no respect for his opinions on police procedure or protocol.</p><p>So he smokes, radiating displeasure as much as he can, and plans how best to send John out for Chinese when they get home.</p><p>And as Sherlock stands there, seething only to himself-- he sees it.</p><p>Their heavily discussed suspect, making a break for it down his fire escape. Right there in front of everyone. Or at least, everyone who actually bothers to <em>observe.</em> Which means Sherlock is clearly the only one to actually notice as he scurries his way down to street level.</p><p>He starts to straighten up. To curl his gloved hand to hammer a fist against the nearest wall, or wave his hand, or perhaps just dance like a trained monkey to get their attention, because he doubts whether anything else will even work.</p><p>And then, something just gives.</p><p>Why, exactly, should he waste his time trying to inform them?</p><p>They waste their time now, bickering about how to approach their suspect. If he alerts them that the man is <em>getting away, </em>then they will simply continue to bicker, and the man will do just that: <em>get away. </em></p><p>Sherlock pauses for a moment longer, exhaling a lingering puff of smoke. His irritation twinges again, a violin string plucked pizzicato and pulled just a hair too tight.</p><p>He kicks himself off the wall with his heel, and swings back around to the group.</p><p>"But we can't risk him getting rid of the evidence, so-- Sherlock? What are you... oh, fine--" Lestrade sighs, even going so far as to lift his arm as to allow him better access to the cigarettes in his pocket. "And we don't even know for sure he's home at all, I don't think that's a good idea..."</p><p>Sherlock pockets the cigarettes for later, and saunters off around the corner, Lestrade's wallet and police badge now in hand.</p><p>Their suspect is not an intelligent or quick-witted man. He is a very dull, vacuous creature, who has every reason to want to run from the police, and enough stupid bravado to try to punch his way out of trouble instead. According to all of Lestrade's dithering back there, they do not currently have enough to arrest him, but Sherlock is confident all the evidence they need is in his flat. All they need to do is to stall him here until it's found.</p><p>Sherlock clips Lestrade's badge to the waistband of his trousers, and bars the moron's way.</p><p>Anyone of proper intelligence would deduce that Sherlock is not possibly of Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard does not plant themselves silently in front of people, smile smugly, and wait for them to stop. Employees of Scotland Yard also are sorely lacking in both a sense of style and an expense account, and tend to not dress as if they've just stepped off Saville Row.</p><p>The specimen before him is not remotely intelligent enough to make such deductions, and skips straight towards swinging a punch instead.</p><p>It's silly and boring, is what it is. Sherlock only needs to stall for just a minute or two, until John notices he's gone missing and tears off around the corner looking for him, thereby giving Lestrade a convenient assault to witness. Sherlock could end the fight in one hit, but that would rather defeat the whole point, so he lets himself get roughed up a bit, instead. An angry elbow gets into his ribs, but it's the ice underfoot that is his true humiliation. His ankle twists underneath him and <em>whumps </em>him straight down right onto the bloody sidewalk, which is just--</p><p><em>God, </em>this is tedious. How slow are the police, exactly? Does he have time to light another cigarette? He is sitting here on a now angrily swelling ankle with this <em>moron</em> flailing beside him, and now what? They're <em>still </em>not here?</p><p>This really would go so much easier if he could yell for help.</p><p>
  <em>"SHERLOCK!"</em>
</p><p>Ah. Speak of the devil. Of the small, cuddly, jumper-wearing devil.</p><p>John has bolted around the corner just in time to see Mr. Moron hauling his fist back against where Sherlock slouches on the sidewalk. Lit only in the glow of the streetlamps, he is a furious and vengeful angel, leading the charge down the street and <em>oh, </em>has Sherlock ever told him how much he loves it, when he looks like that? Absolutely <em>glorious. </em>Sherlock really ought to get himself roughed up more often.</p><p>The first punch is lovely, and Sherlock just about preens with delight. The second punch is twice as lovely as the first. He truly loves how <em>dangerous </em>John is, how he looks so small and unassuming to idiots and morons but his hands know what they are doing and if someone tries to punch him, they're getting punched back twice as hard. God, he <em>loves </em>it.</p><p>"Stay down! No, where do you think you're going? I told you to <em>stay down. </em>Don't you move, got it?"</p><p>Absolutely <em>gorgeous.</em></p><p>John sits back with a terrible, overeager grin, pinning flailing fists to the ice, panting and looking as if he wants to still throw one punch more. He glances back over his shoulder to the Yard, making sure backup is on its way, and finally swivels back to face Sherlock, just in time to see him raise a hand and beam with his best smile.</p><p>Sherlock is breathless and flushed and just a bit high on the successful conclusion of a case, landed right there in his lap. He's <em>happy.</em></p><p>So it takes him longer than it should, to realise that John is not.</p><p>He waits for Lestrade to take the suspect from him, but every additional second it takes for the inspector to make it over there is like the swelling of a storm cloud. A dark, heavy, dangerous storm cloud, that promises flash floods and lightning and pouring sheets of rain that thunder so loudly over the flat that it sounds like soldiers marching down the streets outside.</p><p>Lestrade takes over, and the storm breaks.</p><p>"And just what the <em>hell </em>are you smiling at?"</p><p>What does John <em>think </em>he's smiling at? It's a case. They're on a case, and he's just solved it, all wrapped up in the adrenaline-infused chase and fist fight that both of them live for. It's <em>what they do.</em></p><p>He wills the smile down, precisely because John is not in the mood for it. But it's clearly a bit too late for John to be mollified, because he bolts to his feet and hauls Sherlock up with him, shaking him by the collar and his temper left all the way back around the corner. "Will you <em>ever </em>stop running off to try and get yourself killed?! Don't you ever get tired of it, Sherlock?! No, of course you don't, you <em>like it,</em>" and he lets him go just to stalk back and forth, tearing at his hair, "but you'd think <em>maybe </em>you'd get tired of trying to give me a <em>bloody heart attack?! Hm?!"</em></p><p>Oh. <em>Oh, </em>he sees it, now, of course. John doesn't realise it was all a plan, that he was never in any genuine danger, of course. John thinks he was actually in danger. Sherlock starts to sign his intentions, trying to explain it as simply as he can--</p><p>And once again, he finds himself only signing to John's back.</p><p>"--because you're <em>Sherlock Holmes,</em>" he's still muttering, "you can do fucking <em>anything </em>so long as it's suicidally reckless and stupid--"</p><p>"John," Lestrade starts quietly. The look on his face makes Sherlock's stomach knot. "Maybe you should--"</p><p>"--and all we needed was one bloody word before you go running off a cliff all half-cocked, Sherlock, all I'm <em>ever </em>asking for is for you to just let me know--" He almost kicks the nearest streetlamp, looking absolutely furious. "God damn it, why don't you ever <em>speak up?!"</em></p><p>
  <em>"John!"</em>
</p><p>John throws his hands up, his back turned again in surrender. He paces and works his breaths back under control and it is only now apparent that his breaking point was passed in silence somewheres about several months ago.</p><p>Sherlock licks his lips uselessly. His hands stay limp at his sides, because even if he had the words to say, John would not hear them.</p><p>It takes a few moments for Lestrade to be the one to clear his throat, breaking the silence. "All right," he says, handing their suspect off to another officer. "Let's just all calm down, now. We've got a case to work on, yeah? Sherlock, do you think you can give me a quick statement, so we can hold him on the assault? Or..." He curses under his breath, turning back and forth on the street. "I guess Donovan's not here? I can call her, or an interpreter--"</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes. <em>Not necessary,</em> he signs. Because for the last time, he does not need <em>Sally Donovan </em>on scene just to be helpful. He is not that useless. At least, he is not that useless yet. <em>I can write--</em></p><p>But Lestrade, too, is not even looking at him.</p><p>Lestrade doesn't realise he's tried to say something at all, and neither does John. Lestrade is still busy looking about as if the ability to understand sign language might just spring up right out of the pavement, and John, meanwhile, has made himself at home against the wall of the apartment building, his fist pressed to the wall and each breath making his shoulders heave.</p><p>Frustration wells in his chest until his face is hot and his throat aches.</p><p>He turns around on the spot, Lestrade's badge tossed to skid south on the patch of ice. Then, on a throbbing ankle and with his pride bruised much, much worse than his face, he limps down the street, straight away from where Graham is still blathering about calling an interpreter.</p><hr/><p>He decides to smoke his way through the rest of Lestrade's cigarettes.</p><p>Vengeance, as it turns out, tastes like cheap tar, poison in his lungs, and the intoxicating rush of nicotine.</p><p>It's late at night, by now, with Sherlock having sequestered himself in one of the seedier parts of London. It's a decidedly unsafe spot to be, this time of day. He doesn't really care. In fact, he's almost hoping a mugger or someone of similar repute will notice him, aggressively chainsmoking, and settled two back allies away from the street. He's in the mood for a fist fight... and <em>this one, </em>he's not going to throw.</p><p>Sherlock inhales deeply, head tilted back against the shabby wall. The only warmth there is to be had is the cancer stick between his fingers. The wind and the ground are biting cold, and the rubbish around him is of no comfort to anyone.</p><p>But John won't find him here, and that's rather the point.</p><p>He exhales.</p><p>
  <em>I don't know what to do.</em>
</p><p>John is angry at him. It is everything that Sherlock has wanted to prevent, and it is everything that he has always been powerless to stop. John has tried, so very hard, to be patient. He has taken care of Sherlock for months, and months, and <em>months. </em>He has been a doctor for him at all hours of the night and days of the week, and woken up through nightmares with him, and been<em> gentle. </em>He has stayed by Sherlock's side despite signing up for precisely none of this, and permitted him to be silent despite there being nothing at all that is wrong with him.</p><p>But Sherlock has always known that John's patience will have a limit.</p><p>And here it is.</p><p>John, quite clearly, can not <em>do this </em>anymore.</p><p>Sherlock exhales angrily on another puff of smoke.</p><p>It's disgusting as it is predictable. Because he has seen this coming, of course. He has been told by just about everyone he has ever met, how <em>infuriating </em>he is, how frustrating, and unreasonable, and <em>wrong. </em>And John is a wonderful man, but John is also a very particular man. John does not proclaim these judgments to be wrong; John says that he loves him in spite of them, because of everything else that Sherlock <em>also </em>is. Sherlock can give him the amazing, fantastic, tremendous, glorious--</p><p>But it was only a matter of time until John realised Sherlock is not those things anymore.</p><p>And besides. He is Sherlock Holmes. He sees <em>everything coming. </em></p><p>So of course he has seen this.</p><p>He smokes the cigarette down to ash, and grinds the stub beneath his foot.</p><p>He has tried. Mycroft gave him the motivation months ago, upon slinking into his flat like the snake he is and using dangerous words like <em>inpatient </em>and <em>treatment </em>and <em>John thinks--.</em> John had thought he should see a <em>therapist.</em> John was gossiping about him to Mycroft behind his back. <em>John </em>thought he was <em>unwell. </em></p><p>So Sherlock had done what he'd thought was the right thing. John was worried about him? Then he would give him reason to no longer be worried. He would take away everything about him that was wrong and unhealthy, so John would only look at him and see <em>fantastic </em>again.</p><p>He eats. He eats on a damn schedule like clockwork. He eats twice a day even on a case, 1500 calories of eggs and protein and vegetables and it's so <em>tedious, </em>it's so <em>slow, </em>it's like he's chained down with anchors whenever he tries to hurtle upwards on a case but he does it anyway. He hates it and he does it anyway.</p><p>He sleeps. He <em>goes to bed </em>like a <em>normal person </em>and not even Sherlock has enough control over his brain to turn it off for a full eight hours, but he still lies down like a good, normal, proper human being and he shuts his eyes for at least a few hours, every day. Even on a case! It's a waste of time and it's hideous but he does it, he does it even when he wakes up with a scream caught in his chest but never in his throat, and John obviously knows he hates it, but what else is he meant to do? He can't turn the nightmares off. He's <em>tried. </em>All he can do is force an approach to sleep that is comparable to what normal people do.</p><p>He gets dressed. He doesn't see the damn point, but John glares at him when he wears a sheet and says it's inappropriate and humiliating over Skype, and he doesn't like when he can see the dots of scars on his chest, so he gets dressed. Mostly. He wears pajamas when he can be bothered.</p><p>He did the physical therapy that John made him. It <em>hurt, </em>and it was tedious, and there's nothing quite more devastating for a man's pride than being congratulated on being able to bend and flex to the same extent as any normal human being, but he did that, too. He did the exercises more religiously than John had done his own after Afghanistan. (Which was not actually saying much, because John had skived them off, upon learning he'd never be a surgeon again.) But he did them. John had to handhold, work, and bully him through it. But he did it.</p><p>He--</p><p>He has done <em>everything </em>that he knows how to do.</p><p>There's nothing else left.</p><p>It's so awkward and heartbreakingly dull, but he irons out schedules to the very last detail. He eats and sleeps and trims his nails so he can't scratch himself and Skype calls John once a day and what the hell more is he meant to do? He can't <em>do </em>any more! From the outside, he and John look exactly what two ordinary people engaged in a sexual and romantic relationship ought to look. He has tried as hard as he can to give him as much <em>normal </em>as is possible.</p><p>But John has never wanted normal.</p><p>And Sherlock is no longer able to give him what he does want.</p><p>
  <em>Why don't you ever speak up?!</em>
</p><p>Why doesn't he?</p><p>He exhales another lungful of smoke and lowers the cigarette, tapping it against his bare wrist. Why the hell doesn't he? Why <em>not? </em>It is simple, spoken language. He just-- opens his mouth, and sound comes out. Human beings have been doing it ever since they evolved out of the ocean; even since before they evolved into <em>human beings. </em>There is nothing difficult about this and there is nothing physically wrong with him.</p><p>If this is what John wants, can't he simply give it to him?</p><p>Sherlock takes a breath, and--</p><p>And--</p><p>There is nothing.</p><p>He tries. And there is nothing.</p><p>He has not consciously allowed himself to make noise in eight months. The last sounds he willingly made were pathetic, earsplitting screams, a wretched wail that tore at his own throat as his arm was snapped right underneath his back. That is the very last sound he made before he threw himself into the depths of the palace, locked the door, and started to set fire to all the corridors that were too dangerous to keep.</p><p>Now he opens his mouth to throw himself past that wall, and he is Sherlock Holmes, isn't he? He can do <em>anything. </em>John says so. He is the most brilliant and resourceful man in all of London. <em>John says so. </em>And Sherlock likes to think there is no limit to what he would do for John, but this is for John. He'd thrown his voice away for him and now he wants it back. He <em>wants it back </em>because this is the only way to make John happy.</p><p>He wants it back, and there are rocks in his throat. He swallows around ground glass and he's drowning in his own blood.</p><p>Sherlock drops his head back against the filthy wall, and sits there in the rubbish and the cold, and sucks in the deepest breath that he can.</p><p>He tries to scream.</p><p>It turns out that there is a limit, to how far he will go for John.</p><p>It's just that that limit is not at throwing his own voice away, but instead at reclaiming it back.</p><hr/><p>He has twenty-two text messages, and the count slowly, steadily rises like the tide. First wetting at his ankles, but if he sits there for too long, he knows he'll feel it frothing up to his throat.</p><p>Several especially odd ones are from Lestrade. There's an awkward one or two asking if he still wants to consult on the case, and then one that just says <em>I'm sure he didn't mean what he said, </em>which makes no sense at all. Mycroft, thank god, has had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.</p><p>Everything else is from John.</p><p>They are much odder than the ones from Lestrade. Sherlock scrolls and scrolls, past <em>I'm sorry </em>and <em>Are you okay? </em>and <em>It's cold out there, at least please get somewhere inside,</em> and once again, <em>I'm really sorry. </em></p><p>Never once does he find what he expects to. There is no more of the anger and chastisement from earlier today at all. John does not demand that he answer him, get inside, explain his actions earlier today, or anything else.</p><p>He is <em>sorry, </em>instead.</p><p>That's just about enough for Sherlock to shut his phone off all-together, and recommence trying to find his own fucking way out of this awful alley.</p><p>Doesn't John understand that Sherlock is the one who should be sorry? Doesn't John understand that he's already done everything that could've been expected of him and more, and <em>Sherlock's</em> the one who is still pathetic and broken and needs more? Doesn't John fucking<em> get it </em>that this is <em>all Sherlock's fault?</em></p><p>He hates this.</p><p>He hates everything about this.</p><p>
  <em>I need a ride. I'm not able to call a cab from my current location, and I suspect that you will be very unhappy with me if I try to walk on my ankle. -SH</em>
</p><p>John proceeds to type and subsequently delete a reply for over two minutes.</p><p>He's tried. His ankle is soft, swollen to twice its size, and multiple colors. Sherlock can hobble one or two steps. He can not hobble all the way back to the bloody street.</p><p>He also really does not want to give John even more cause to be unhappy.</p><p>Finally, John's reply comes.</p><p>
  <em>Where are you?</em>
</p><p>And then, a moment later:</p><p>
  <em>Thank you for not walking on your ankle.</em>
</p><p>Sherlock smirks, curling his frozen fingers in his lap. Clearly, John has written those two texts very, very particularly, every single word chosen only after extreme deliberation.</p><p>It's hateful, and he's also freezing, and really just wants to get inside. Or, more properly, anywhere that is not <em>here.</em></p><p>
  <em>Hence the problem. I'm nowhere with a street address. -SH</em>
</p><p>John takes another few moments, again clearly choosing his words very, very carefully. It seemed he still felt badly for earlier this evening.</p><p>Not necessary, Sherlock would tell him. You've done more than enough.</p><p>But he can't tell him this, and that is precisely the problem.</p><p>
  <em>I can ask Mycroft to trace your phone? Is there another way you think is better? I'm sorry, I know you're angry with him, but I can't think of another way. Walking a few steps to the street is okay if it gets you out of the cold quickly</em>
</p><p>Yes, likely so. It's a bit more than a few steps.</p><p>The only reason Sherlock had squirreled himself away back here was to not be found. He's hardly surprised in the slightest that it's come back to bite him exactly like this.</p><p>His phone buzzes again a few moments later.</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock, is it okay if I call Mycroft for this?</em>
</p><p>John very much needs an answer. He won't call Mycroft, Sherlock realises-- he's asking for his permission and if he doesn't give it, then John won't call him. He will find another way. John wants Sherlock to trust him, more than anything else, and he refuses to bring Mycroft into this if Sherlock doesn't want him to.</p><p>It's tragic and touching and <em>ridiculous. </em></p><p>He tilts his head back and spits out a silent laugh, his throat sore in the cold and his teeth chattering, and texts the damn reply.</p><p>
  <em>Fine. -SH </em>
</p><p>It's not fine. He'd rather Lestrade. Especially not Mycroft. Lestrade is slow and awkward but well-meaning, while Mycroft will be smug and arrogant and hold this over his head for the next century. He doesn't care. He's freezing and what the hell of his pride is there even left to save.</p><p>
  <em>I'm cold and putting my gloves back on. Let me know when you find me. -SH</em>
</p><p>Then he stows his phone back in his pocket, and returns to smoking the last of the cigarettes he'll get before John comes to snatch them out of hand.</p><p>He wants to be more than this.</p><p>He wants to be more than an addict smoking in an alley who can not speak.</p><hr/><p>Mycroft is capable, of course. And though he is a smug, arrogant prat, he likes to be smug when Sherlock is present as a captive audience, from one of his ridiculous rooms at the Diogenes. Not at all via text message while Sherlock freezes himself to death twenty steps away from a crack den.</p><p>The sound of footsteps comes just soon enough that he knows Mycroft must have agreed to send a car. The footsteps are only John's, which is unsurprising; Mycroft doesn't do legwork, and he especially doesn't do it when there's ice on the ground and it's just starting to snow. He also certainly wouldn't do legwork with John, at the moment. Not when John is most likely to lead him into the nearest skip and conveniently trip him into it.</p><p>Sherlock tosses a used soda can against the nearest wall as hard as he can, and waits.</p><p>Sure enough, the footsteps pause.</p><p>Then, he pounds for Sherlock's hiding spot as fast as he can.</p><p>"Oh, thank god, <em>there you are--"</em></p><p>John is flushed and dressed like someone who'd expected to be out in the cold much longer than he has been, bundled up in his heavy green monstrosity of a coat with the collar turned up and a scarf that looks like one of Sherlock's trailing. He jogs towards where Sherlock is just finishing his last smoke, staring down at him in bemused bewilderment, and for a moment Sherlock isn't sure if he's going to be hugged or shouted at.</p><p>Neither happens, though it seems only to be because John is caught between the two. "God, what the hell are you doing out here," he mutters, on his knees beside him, and an attempt at a hug turns into a gruff cough and measuring of his pulse. "You're not an ice cube, at least. All right. Come on, let's see the ankle."</p><p>John rolls up his trouser leg up without making Sherlock do it himself, very carefully running his hands around the ankle that is now swollen to almost twice the size its supposed to be, and turning colors that would be incredibly fascinating if they weren't on his own limb. John hisses in sympathy, and immediately changes his mind about touching it. "Yeah, you made the right decision not walking anywhere on this. Sorry, but we're going to want to get you down to A&amp;E. It could just be a sprain, but hairline fractures can hide in there without an X-ray, and if you miss that you'll be very sorry later."</p><p>It's only a sprain. He'd twisted it on the ice and landed flat on his back. There was never any trauma to his leg sufficient to break the bone. It's not worth the effort to unfold his frozen solid fingers to explain this via text message, and more to the point, the only thing that will actually convince John is an X-ray. Not that Sherlock ordinarily would care, but-- he figures he has put John through enough today. This week. These past eight months.</p><p>He can bear a few hours in A&amp;E.</p><p>Sherlock waits for what he knows will be next. John, again assuring that he's not about to expire of hypothermia, and then managing to help him hobble up to his feet. John, explaining to him as he crutches his way out of the alley that he's sorry, but Mycroft insisted on coming, and he's still waiting in the car. Perhaps an awkward attempt at an apology for earlier today, because Sherlock is <em>fragile </em>and <em>pitiable </em>and <em>frail </em>and obviously fell apart because of the slip of John's tongue, and not instead-- everything that there is behind it.</p><p>He's ready, resigned, and waiting.</p><p>And it doesn't come.</p><p>John exhales a long, shaken breath, suddenly dropping back to sit on his heels as if the strength to sit upright has deserted him. He gently rolls Sherlock's trouser leg back down and the sock back up, being very careful to only jostle the swollen joint as much as is necessary, and still does not look at him.</p><p>His face is utterly exhausted.</p><p>"Sherlock," he ventures, reaching a hand for him, then stops. Rather than touching Sherlock's arm, his hands curl together in his lap instead, and his voice is very, very quiet. "I... need to apologise."</p><p>Ah. So the awkward apology is going to come now, is it?</p><p>He'd rather do without it, actually. Or at least John have waited until they got back to the warmth of Mycroft's bloody interfering car.</p><p>"I haven't been... very good, lately. And what I said, back at the crime scene earlier. That wasn't good either. You know I hate it when you run off on your own, when you don't let me come with you for whatever godforsaken reason, but... that wasn't what that was about."</p><p>Yes. Obviously.</p><p><em>It's fine, </em>he starts to sign, because John at least can understand at least that much. Even while obstructed by thick gloves and stiff fingers, everybody can translate the circle and three fingers pointing up as <em>okay. </em>But for some reason this simple sign seems to make John even more distressed and he shakes his head, suddenly earnest and very determined to get his point through. "No, it's <em>not</em>," he says, "it's not okay at all, that's the problem, don't you see? I've been--"</p><p>He cuts himself off from whatever he's going to say, shaking his head again as he turns away from Sherlock. He rubs his hands together and wraps his arms around himself, but if it hadn't been for the brisk cold, he'd be up and pacing right now.</p><p>"Look," he says. He takes a deep breath, and lifts his head up to meet his eyes. It's uncomfortable and awkward, but he has clearly spent a long time thinking this through, and has decided this is something that is Important. This is something he Has to Say. "I'm frustrated. And I feel useless. I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty, I'm saying it because it's true. It seems like nothing is getting better and I'm supposed to be doing something but I don't know what that is. I want to help, and I know you're trying, but it feels like you're... stalling. That we're getting nowhere. And that worries me. Because I know you're not happy like this, you can't possibly be, and--" He curses under his breath, suddenly aggravated. "Am I making sense? I'm not making sense, am I?"</p><p>No, he's not. Not particularly. If this is meant to be an apology, it's not one that Sherlock had imagined. He doesn't think this is John's attempt to say <em>this is too much </em>and <em>I'm leaving, </em>either. Surely John would at least let that wait until they're inside and no longer surrounded by rubbish in an alley.</p><p>He tries to tell John that it's okay, again. In as simple language as he can make it, he tries to tell John that it's all right, he is fine, he doesn't need to be sorry. His cold fingers fumble at first, but before he's even halfway through John's face falls, and he shakes his head, wrapping his hands around Sherlock's to keep them still. "No, listen to me. I'm trying to say that I know things have been very difficult for you, and instead of supporting you I'm pretty sure I've only made things worse. Just... god, Sherlock! Look at this--" He splays his fingers through Sherlock's again, cradling them close to his chest. "You can't even talk to me! It's been <em>months, </em>and I can barely understand more than hello and how are you. I'm not you, you know, I can't just pick up a language overnight, and I thought it was so unnecessary, I'd sit down and start learning it, and by the time I got anywhere significant all of this would be over! Of course you'd get your voice back soon! Why wouldn't you; you're Sherlock! Of course you'd be fine, why wouldn't you be?"</p><p>Sherlock shifts on the ground, suddenly and exorbitantly uncomfortable. He says nothing. Of course he says nothing.</p><p>If ever there was a time, it would be now. But he can't even open his mouth. Earlier he'd at least gotten past that step; now he can't even make it that far. He <em>wants to, </em>but he can't do it.</p><p>Something of it must show on his face, because John shakes his head again, the self-loathing in his expression softening into a sad smile. "It's okay," he murmurs. "You don't have to say anything. I know I've said that before but... but I really mean it, this time. You don't ever have to say anything again, if you can't. I want you to be happy and if this is what that looks like for you now, then... that's okay."</p><p>What?</p><p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p><p>Of course it's not okay. Why is John saying that it's okay?</p><p>This is not what John signed up for. This is not what anybody in the world could ever want. They're sitting here with John pouring out a monologue worthy of a romantic tragedy while Sherlock sits here unable to so much as say a single word back in answer. It's not remotely okay at all.</p><p>John doesn't want this. And <em>Sherlock </em>doesn't want this, either. Nothing about this is what Sherlock wants to be.</p><p>It must show on his face, <em>again, </em>or perhaps John just really does know him that well, because John's smile crumples again, forlorn, like he's falling inward. But his hands around Sherlock's remains strong and he doesn't let go. "You don't believe me," he mutters, touching his face. His hands are cold but Sherlock's even colder, so somehow, it all balances out. "And I can't even blame you, after... but I promise I mean it, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how incredible you are?" He shakes his head again, as if it is one of life's great mysteries, his hand tracing over the side of his face and his hair, and for a moment he looks about to kiss him. "Do you have any idea how incredible you <em>still </em>are? This, none of this has changed <em>anything </em>about why I want to be with you. I know it might not always seem like it and that I get frustrated and say stupid things, but that's because I'm an idiot, Sherlock. You know I'm an idiot. You love that I'm an idiot, I--"</p><p>He breaks off again, swallowing heavily and shivering. John takes another breath, closing his eyes to visibly steel himself, regaining whatever composure has been lost and his footing underneath with it.</p><p>Sherlock isn't expecting it at all, when John sits closer, and kisses him hard, right on the mouth.</p><p>It's breathless and the warmest thing in this damn alley. He breathes in sharply, tasting John, and John kisses him until the despair in his head is entirely eaten up and there's nothing underneath it at all but how <em>badly </em>he wants this. Sherlock opens his mouth, trying to respond properly, to make some sort of noise, <em>any at all,</em> but there's nothing and all he can do is kiss John until they both have to break apart for air.</p><p>"Right," John murmurs, voice a little high and breathless. He leans his forehead against Sherlock's, cradling his face, his eyes steady and his skin pink. "I'm only going to say this once, because I know you don't like apologies, and moping isn't going to help either of us at all, so I'm just going to say this once and then shut the book on it. Sherlock. I'm sorry for how I've been acting and how hard this must have been for you. I'm sorry that I have to sit here monologuing at you because I can't understand anything back that you want to say. I'm sorry that I haven't listened to you and paid attention to what you were trying to tell me. I love you, and all I want to do right now is to help you. If you're happy, then so am I. All we need to do is work out a new way for you to tell me I'm an idiot." He smiles tentatively, like he's not sure if it's allowed at all, and even less sure if it will be returned. One cold hand curls against the side of his face and the other drops to squeeze even tighter around his. "Okay?"</p><p>Sherlock has no idea what he's supposed to say.</p><p>It's a very moving and sincere speech. John absolutely <em>wants </em>to mean every word of it, and in fact, he probably thinks he does. John is probably sincere in everything that he has just said. And there is certainly a very big part of Sherlock that wants to embrace it all at face value, let John kiss him again like he so clearly wants to do, and then <em>finally </em>hobble out of this damn cold.</p><p>There's just one thing, that stops him.</p><p>John's left hand is shaking.</p><p>John doesn't even seem to notice it. He's curled his fingers tightly around Sherlock's enough that it mostly stills the tremor entirely. It's barely enough for Sherlock to notice, between the gloves and his own chilled hands, but it's there. Just the slightest tremor in his hand.</p><p>He'd believe it was from the cold, if it wasn't only in one hand.</p><p>He looks at John, and he hears what he said. What he <em>really </em>said. Not just about Sherlock, but about himself, too. About being frustrated, and feeling (utterly ludicrously) that he is <em>not good enough. </em>That he is <em>useless. </em></p><p>Sherlock looks at John, an ex-army doctor that needs the chase, the battle, and to be important, having poured his heart out in an endlessly romantic, albeit mostly misguided speech, and he's feeling his hand tremor.</p><p>A switch flips, and he makes his decision.</p><hr/><p>They get to A&amp;E. Mycroft is, most curiously, not present. John tells him that he'd threatened to snog the living daylights out of Sherlock for the entire drive if Mycroft had insisted upon staying, which is easily the most romantic thing he's said all day. He's diagnosed with a bad sprain and given a hateful walking boot, to which John promises to make it worth his while if he leaves it on and agrees to call for Chinese on the way home.</p><p>It's all very mundane and pedestrian. Sherlock lets it happen without anything more than token protestations, and once they are both sufficiently thawed out and defrosted, gets John to make good on his promise to snog the living daylights out of him, Mycroft or no.</p><p>He bides his time. He makes an appointment. He waits.</p><p>And then, when Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister's, and Mycroft is out of the country, and John is going to be home late today because he's got his first meeting scheduled with a BSL tutor, and Sherlock is <em>alone </em>and <em>safe </em>and <em>no one can know--</em></p><p>Sherlock goes.</p><p>"Mr. Scott Holmes," the doctor says, observing him over wire-rimmed glasses and the neat fold of his hands. His office is suffocatingly friendly, with an overstuffed couch, a box of tissues, and a motivational quote framed on the wall. He also has a doctorate in molecular biology (see: non-idiot), a fierce moral fiber (see: John), and a coffee addiction that he treats with heart-attack inducing cappuccinos from an expensive, environmentally friendly cafe every morning. "It's a pleasure to meet you."</p><p>It's not the most brilliant of aliases, no. Scott Holmes. SH. And here he sits, famous coat and scarf and all. Just about all he's missing is the hat.</p><p>Ah, well. The tabloids would've figured it out sooner or later. No sense to worry about the eventual tears over already spilled milk.</p><p>Sherlock takes a deep breath, and hands across the prepared scrawl to the waiting psychologist.</p><p>
  <em>I have selective mutism as a consequence of post-traumatic stress.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You are going to help me speak. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>-SH</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>One more chapter... and I think we can all guess the last step there is to take! :D</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. XII: One Last Push</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you everyone to has read or interacted along the way, it has absolutely meant the world to me, and I hope it's been as fun for you to read it as it's been for me to write it &lt;3 I think I got all the replies to people for this update, but if I missed someone, I am sincerely sorry.</p><p>One last very long chapter tonight, and no surprises here... it's the moment we've been waiting for!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I am Sherlock Holmes."</p><p>The words are low, and croaky, and unfamiliar. They don't sound like his voice. He feels them in his sore throat and how they taste in his mouth, and they're unfamiliar there, too. It feels like the first few weeks of learning a foreign language, when the sounds and syllables are still uncomfortable as he fights his tongue to make it learn the proper ways to move and speak. It's only his name, and there's nothing familiar about it at all.</p><p>Sherlock swipes his sleeve through the mist of condensation on the mirror, cleaning one thin stripe just enough to see the stare of his own eyes.</p><p><em>"I am Sherlock Holmes,"</em> he demands.</p><p>
  <em>"Hey, Sherlock, the cab's here! You ready to go?"</em>
</p><p>Sherlock nods to himself in the mirror.</p><p>He swipes his scarf off the bathroom counter, and emerges back into the flat with his hair still drying and a grin of his face.</p><hr/><p>It's the little things, that keep him moving forward.</p><p>He goes to Regent's Park, sometimes. He claims to John it's reconnaissance for a case, boring, dull, something John wouldn't be interested in. It's a transparent lie: he <em>always</em> wants John there on a case. What he doesn't want John there for is to play witness to him searching out all the dogs in the park. Sometimes one will bound over to him, licking his legs and shedding all over his coat. His dry cleaning bill doubles, and he finds air. "There's a good boy," he says, or "Good girl," or "Your owner's a bastard that's cheating on his wife." Perhaps they really should get a dog.</p><p>He sets himself up on a stakeout at a Starbucks, the paper folded in his lap as he sits at the counter, picks at a muffin, and observes the bank across the street. John is not with him (shift at the surgery), and once the morning rush dies down, the cafe is almost empty. He picks at his muffin. He counts the minutes. He picks even more obsessively at the muffin.</p><p>"Can I have a black coffee, please?"</p><p>The words are a bit sad, to be honest. They are desperately hoarse, each syllable caught in his throat, and there they snag like gravel. It sounds like he's just spent the last hour smoking, or that he's caught the flu going around and spent the night vomiting up the contents of his stomach.</p><p>"That'll be five quid." The barista hesitates, green, styrofoam cup in hand and her nervous little finger tapping against it. She's fifteen minutes away from a smoke break. "Are you sure I can't get you a water, too, sir? You sound a bit peaky."</p><p>Sherlock opens his mouth, slowly tasting the feel of the words, his lips and tongue dry and his throat sore again. It's painfully quiet, in here, details crushing in around him and the weight of the silence on his tongue.</p><p>He snaps his mouth shut, and just shakes his head instead.</p><p>Tomorrow. He'll say more tomorrow.</p><hr/><p>"I am Sherlock Holmes."</p><hr/><p>He finds his voice again. But as he is slowly beginning to understand, that is not the same thing as finding his words.</p><p>His words have been robbed from his throat for a year in the making, and no matter how much he now wants to speak, he finds it is not at all as easy as opening his mouth and making his voice come out. He's spent months imagining it, what his triumphant return will be and sound like, how fantastic his entrance will be, how the euphoria that will burn in his veins will be<em> hotter</em> and <em>brighter</em> than the purest cocaine. It will be <em>perfection, </em>he's thought, it will be dramaticism and glory only worthy of Sherlock Holmes. <em>That is </em>his name and <em>this is </em>who he is.</p><p>It will be something quick and clever, perhaps an especially smart deduction, or an especially deserved insult to Anderson. When there's a spotlight on him and the stage of a crime scene, and he is the diva on stage. Or he can wait until Mycroft stops by next to exude his smugness all over the flat, and Sherlock simply needs to pop the balloon of his existence to shreds. Or even simpler than that, all he truly needs to do is just wait for the right moment to say just the right thing to John. Something big and flashy and wonderful, something to inspire John's awe and praise and love for him. The perfect words to end this <em>nightmare.</em></p><p>
  <em>A case, John!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thank you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Have dinner with me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>We should get a dog.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I love you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Marry me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I solved it! I solved it!</em>
</p><p>But there are no perfect words, and the harder he tries to say them, the more he understands he's setting himself up for certain failure. He wants a perfect ending, one of the transparently 'witty' sign-offs to one of John's long case write-ups, but there is no perfect ending because this is not a blog post. The borings bits have not been edited out, and Sherlock's words or lack thereof will not be proofread, pruned, and purified to be at their best. It is raw, real, and so <em>very </em>imperfect.</p><p>If this were a case write-up, then it would not have begun with Sherlock losing his voice in the first place. He would not have stumbled onto this case through sheer serendipity, and then he would not have systematically had his own failure and defeat branded into his own skin. He would not have fashioned a white surrendering flag with his own blood and bits of shattered arm, tearing himself to shreds because he was so terribly <em>human </em>as to not be able to hold his own tongue. He would not then have proceeded to languish in his own failure while John suffered for it, and perhaps most unforgivable of all, he would not be still sitting here now, clawing his words back one by one but only able to impart them to baristas in a coffeehouse and dogs in a park.</p><p>This is not one of John's blog posts.</p><p>He can not wait for <em>the right moment. </em>He can not wait until he has <em>the perfect words</em>.</p><p>All Sherlock is able to do now is claw his voice back from the six rotting corpses that stole it from him, syllable by syllable, until it is clutched back in his own bleeding hands.</p><p>(See. Now <em>that</em> is a good ending to a blog post! John really should let him have a go at it-- he's absolutely positive the people would love it.)</p><hr/><p>John winds up catching the flu going around before Sherlock. It's not exactly surprising-- while John gets his flu shot every year, and is in fact required to by his job at the surgery, it can only be so effective when he's exposed to every bloody strain of it from his patients. It comes on quickly and furiously, as the way influenza tends to do. One evening, John frowns at his dinner, just halfway finished and with clumps of rice sticking to his fork, and proclaims that he's just not hungry. The next morning, Sherlock is woken up at half past four by John all but stepping on him to get to the loo in time.</p><p>"Sorry," John croaks, red-eyed, flushed, and absolutely miserable. Which is ridiculous, because Sherlock's not quite sure what John thinks he even has to be sorry for.</p><p>John just shrugs when Sherlock signs as such, dropping his head back to his knees. He does not look like he wants to move from the bathroom floor at any point in the foreseeable future. But when Sherlock takes a step closer, John pushes at his knees, like a cat butting his head against a door. "No, Sherlock, I don't want--" he coughs, a deep, wet, hacking one, and when he clears his throat it sounds like he's swallowing glass. "I don't want to get you sick."</p><p>Oh, <em>please.</em></p><p>"Can you just..." He hangs his head wearily, rubbing a shaking hand over his mouth. He looks absolutely <em>dreadful. </em>"Water. Please?"</p><p>Well, he supposes he can make the tea. Just this once.</p><p>While the water comes to a boil, Sherlock goes on a silent hunt for the other items they'll need, for a long bathroom-floor cohabitation. They're almost out of tea. He very briefly considers texting Mycroft, to send his minions on a Tesco's run or at least to bother him in the middle of the night, but instead forces himself to settle for his lab notebook under his arm, John's dressing gown over his shoulder, and one cup of water and one cup of tea in hand.</p><p>"Thank you," John sighs. He cradles the cup with his watering eyes shut, not sipping yet but just hugging it to his chest, like a child with a stuffed toy. He's gone a little green, and Sherlock is this time content to hand him his dressing gown from across the room. "Thanks again. Now--"</p><p>Sherlock sits firmly down in the space of the door, his own cup of tea cradled in hand and one eyebrow raised defiantly. He sips.</p><p>It takes about two seconds for John to melt back to the floor.</p><p>He's grinning, though he's trying not to show it. And with half his hair stuck up, his face as white as the floor and his eyes bloodshot and watering, and his current attire being ancient pajamas and his dressing gown as a blanket...</p><p>It's so easy.</p><p>There is nothing that Sherlock has ever wanted more than this.</p><p>He tears a sheet loose from his notebook, very quickly scribbling his words down. </p><p><em>"I would personally engineer a lethal mutation in every individual influenza capsid in your body right now, and do so with pleasure."</em> John's mouth quirks, and he glances at Sherlock over the sheet. "Is this your version of a romantic gesture? I love you, too." He closes his eyes again, one cheek squished against the crook of his arm. "Though that's just bad science, love. You have to kill each one individually? So I suppose I'll be cured this time next year, then?"</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes back, and recaps his pen with his teeth with a decisive <em>snick.</em></p><p>John stays down on his side, after that, not exactly in the mood to talk. He throws up a few more times, and is eventually forced into allowing Sherlock to help him on account of the fact that Sherlock will not be bullied away. The thermometer confirms the fever they had both already suspected, and John is very clearly thinking he's going to be most at home right there on the floor for the rest of the day.</p><p>He could speak now. He could clear his throat, and speak up. Give them a way to communicate, when John is obviously too tired to sign or to text. Give John a reason to smile.</p><p>He could speak up right now.</p><p>"Sherlock," John rasps. "Give me a sheet." His hot fingers tug on Sherlock's bare foot and he blinks slowly, the words muddy and tired. "And can you call in to Sarah for me, please? Email. Laptop's on the table. Password is-- what am I saying, you already know my password..."</p><p>Sherlock keeps his mouth shut, and does as he's told.</p><p>By the time he's finished with the email, John is finished with whatever it is that he's writing, and they switch off. And at first, Sherlock has no idea what he's reading. It's a grocery list, milk, eggs, tea, and so on, but that's not all that it is. Each item is, very oddly, because John does tend to do very odd things, marked with directions.</p><p>Milk: <em>back of the store, corner furthest from door. </em>Tea: <em>fifth aisle, w/e brand you like. </em>Honey: <em>I don't know, but please.</em></p><p>Sherlock blinks again.</p><p>"I don't exactly fancy crawling to Tesco's," John mumbles into his arm. It's impossible to tell if he's embarrassed, or just too tired to actually lift his head. Whichever it is, for one very strange moment, Sherlock just wants to hug him. "I know you delete where everything is in there, so... just so you can find it."</p><p>A third blink.</p><p>It's a map.</p><p>It is a map. Of the grocery store. For him. Because Sherlock could just as easily find the required items by mutely pointing at them on the list and dragging a cashier about the store with him, but that requires <em>interaction, </em>with <em>people. </em>Public interaction that is humiliating. That John <em>knows </em>he finds humiliating, having to act things out right in front of everyone, having strangers look at him and assume that he's mentally disturbed or slow and speaking to him like he's a <em>child.</em> So he's drawn him a map instead.</p><p>Sherlock sits there on the bathroom floor, holding a map to the grocery store in his hands, and... and he is stricken. His throat stings and it's suddenly all too much.</p><p>John, while sick, exhausted, and clearly wanting nothing at all more than to just put his head back down on the floor and go back to sleep, has drawn him a map to milk and eggs and tea.</p><p>It's more sentiment than he knows what to do with and it's overwhelming. He's sitting on the floor with his hands suddenly clammy and his chest tight, and he's about to <em>cry. </em></p><p>They are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They live on stakeouts and Chinese takeaway at two in the morning, and say <em>I love you w</em>ith murder threats against viral strains and maps of the grocery store.</p><p>Now is the moment to speak.</p><p>If ever there will be a moment, <em>Jesus Christ, </em>now is <em>it--</em></p><p>"...Sherlock?"</p><p>Something. Anything at all. <em>Anything. </em>Just one word, that's all John is asking him for. Just <em>one word.</em></p><p>His legs propel him out of sight before he can even start to open his mouth, and his heart is pounding so hard he can hear it throb in his ears. His throat hurts and he suddenly can't help but to scratch it, his fingernails tearing lines down it so deeply they want to bleed.</p><p>This will not last.</p><p>They are <em>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.</em></p><p>He stands in the sitting room, his eyes squeezed shut and sniffling quietly into his hands, stamping down the wave of emotion until it is thoroughly corralled. His rubs his eyes with one sleeve, cradling the precious paper in the other hand.</p><p>He won't abide by this any longer.</p><hr/><p>"I am Sherlock Holmes," he rasps, somewhat unnecessarily. His face feels hot and uncomfortable and he suddenly has to tug at his scarf, feeling close to suffocating. "Where is the honey?"</p><hr/><p>He thinks he'd rather like to have the Tesco's map framed. Flattened and pinned preciously in careful glass, and hung next to his periodic table and judo certificate. Maybe if John signed it, with the date-- a permanent stamp and recollection of everything that this year has been, and everything that John has done for him, and everything that Sherlock is determined to never need again.</p><p>It's a bit sentimental. The map itself is sentimental. Everything <em>about this </em>is sentimental.</p><p>If there's anything at all that he's learned from this dreadful experience, it's that there are worse things than sentiment.</p><p>He doesn't have it framed (yet). Instead, Sherlock makes tea with honey, and texts Mrs. Hudson that John is ill, and he makes even more tea with honey. John sleeps. He makes more tea. Mrs. Hudson comes up with soup and pushes a warm bowl of it into his hands, with instructions on how to heat it up later and telling him it's sweet, how well he looks after John. He makes more tea with honey and throws it out and presses the heel of his hand to his chest and counts all the words that he can't say in the space of the silence.</p><p>They need more honey again.</p><p>When the clock ticks to 2:45 on the dot, Sherlock uses the last of the honey, and forces himself to move on legs filled with lead back to the bedroom.</p><p>John is awake this time, but clearly feels sick again, because his laptop is hugged to his stomach rather than open, and he's more interested in the pattern of dust lit up from the window light than he is anything else. He does rouse a bit, when Sherlock enters, and even manages a tired smile as he accepts the mug of tea.</p><p>"Thanks," he rumbles, then coughs, making a face. "Sherlock Holmes, making me tea. And I can't even enjoy it. Worst day of my life."</p><p>Silence passes. Sherlock coughs himself, not quite able to clear his throat.</p><p><em>I'm going out, </em>he signs. He can not, <em>will not, </em>allow himself to wallow in the failure this feels like. <em>Two hours. Mrs. H downstairs.</em></p><p>"Oh. Okay," John murmurs, shrugging. He balls tighter under the duvet, now barely visible at all save for the warm flush in his cheeks and the overbright glimmer of his eyes. "You've got a case? I'll be fine, Sherlock. Got plenty of tea." He nods to the cup on the bedside table, his smile slight but genuine around the edge of the blanket. "Stay safe."</p><p>No. No, it's not a case. No, he is-- no.</p><p>His mouth and fingers stick together with glue.</p><p>John squints at him, when he does not move. Something of it must show on his face, because he blinks and starts to sit halfway up, or perhaps it's the scrap of paper, clutched between two clammy fingers and extended halfway out, frozen in midair. He's trying to give it to John. It's been written for ninety-five minutes, because he's planned every single word of this conversation. He must give it to John.</p><p>It could be a case. He could still backtrack, walk away, set fire to the paper, and never mention this again. John thinks it's a case. It could be a case. He could cancel the appointment entirely and not go at all. It's a fair reason to cancel; he has a sick partner, of course he must stay home. Yes. He should cancel, he should absolutely cancel. It's not a big deal. It's only one appointment. Francis would understand. He should cancel, and then set fire to this note and never write it again, and then-- then--</p><p>John gently takes the paper from his clenched fist, and reads it for himself.</p><p>
  <em>I'm seeing a therapist. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>4 months. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Appointment today.</em>
</p><p>John reads the note. He blinks, and reads it a second time. His face does a strange, curious thing, one that is particularly difficult to read underneath already red eyes and congestion and the deep creases of the pillow.</p><p>John at last looks back up at him, and Sherlock can't keep silent. He has to do <em>something, </em>and he finds his hands twitching again, lifting up through the signs just because he can't keep them still. <em>For my voice, </em>he signs, as if it is not <em>obvious, </em>as if that doesn't raise the question <em>if it's been four months, why can you still not speak, </em>as if that doesn't raise even more questions of <em>why on earth haven't you told me. </em>He has to explain, to justify this, to find some way to spin it that is not so embarrassing, and humiliating, utterly <em>pathetic--</em></p><p>John's fingers suddenly catch in his, stilling the signs. They wrap around his and just <em>squeeze</em>, very tight and very warm, and the look on his face wraps all around Sherlock, too, warm and calming, like a blanket. "I want you to know," he starts, his voice thick through a combination of congestion and sentiment, "that... I want--" he swallows, his finger still playing with Sherlock's. "I'm bloody proud of you and the only reason I'm not kissing you right now is I really, really don't want to get you sick."</p><p>Sherlock manages something barely approaching a smile of his own. It feels like a nail has been driven into his chest, that Sherlock is himself the one that hammered it in, and John is now gently wedging it out.</p><p><em>I'm more than a pretty mouth, </em>he points out, and John grins back.</p><p>"Yes. You're a smart-mouth, too. Smart-fingers." He presses Sherlock's hand to his mouth instead, kissing his fingers, and there is nothing there but fondness. There is nothing there that his overactive brain has put together over the months and instead just so much genuine affection and warmth that he wants to crawl into bed, sod the virus, and never leave it again.</p><p>He grins back instead, forcing the insecurity in his chest down, and kisses John's hand back.</p><p>He really would like to personally dissect every single viral fragment in his body. But for now, this will simply have to do.</p><hr/><p>Sherlock doesn't speak. Not to Francis, not to the receptionist, not to the group of smokers outside, not to the taxi driver on the way. He's already decided that while someday, he will speak here, it will not be a first step. John comes first. He will speak to John, before he ever speaks here.</p><p>He does, however, pass over his latest triumph.</p><p>
  <em>I asked a stranger for a cigarette. </em>
</p><p>"That's good," Francis encourages. "How did it make you feel?"</p><p>God. <em>Fine. Obviously. </em>Then, <em>Shouldn't doctors not be encouraging patients to smoke?</em></p><p>"Everything in balance, Scott. Though if you really must know, yes, I recommend quitting smoking if you can, without reservation or hesitation." He pauses again, the sheet crinkling in his hands. "You know, for some of my patients? Asking a stranger for a cigarette? That's the highlight of their week. That's a huge, very impressive step to take for them."</p><p>
  <em>I don't have social anxiety. </em>
</p><p>"No," Francis agrees, "you don't. That doesn't mean you can't share some of the same struggles. And my point is that it's still progress, Scott. Something that looks like nothing to you is still incredible to someone else." He pauses for a moment, giving him a pointed look over his glasses. "Something tells me John would think so, if you'd tell him."</p><p>There's that word again. Incredible.</p><p>Not yet.</p><p>John can't know yet.</p><p>Francis hands back the collection of sheets he's gathered over the session, when the hour is up-- it was one of the conditions Sherlock had had, upon agreeing to therapy in the first place. "I'll see you next week, then?" Francis holds his hand out for Sherlock to shake, as he readjusts his scarf and tugs his coat down and his suit jacket straight. There's something curious on his face, for just one moment. And then:</p><p>"Sherlock?"</p><p>Sherlock reels to a stop, one foot already planted to pivot himself out the door.</p><p>"Your face is always on a tabloid, Mr. Holmes. Although I think I'd have recognised you, anyway-- I'm a huge fan of the blogs. Both of them, actually." Francis shakes his hand vigorously with a huge smile, not letting go until Sherlock has unrooted himself enough to finally shake back. "And I suppose what I'm saying is, it would be very remiss of me, if I didn't get to have the great Sherlock Holmes deduce me before this is all over. I'm sure you've built up quite a lot to say."</p><p>He does.</p><p>He does have quite a lot to say, doesn't he?</p><p>Sherlock heads out of the office, his hands buried deep into his pockets and his face tucked into his scarf. On impulse alone, he bins the scrap of paper meant for the cabbie, on which he had already written <em>221B Baker Street</em>.</p><p>His next appointment, he'll cancel. And then the one after that. He'll cancel all of them, until he's able to walk in, sit down, and tell Francis Miller to his face that that his sister is a pediatric nurse, he has a new kitten that likes to cut his claws on his sleeve, and that he has a slight allergy to the muffin he buys himself every morning.</p><p>Sherlock is determined that he is not going to have to cancel all that many appointments.</p><hr/><p>That night, he picks up his violin.</p><p>He leaves the bow in the case, tucking the instrument under his chin to play pizzicato instead. Because John is surely asleep, and he doesn't want to wake John. John and Mrs. Hudson are always telling him to be considerate and not to play in the middle of the night, aren't they? This is the polite thing to do, the normal thing to do.</p><p>He sits in his armchair, and plays quietly enough that no one can hear him. His posture is dreadful, and his left arm appears to be actually trying to kill him. His fingertips wear in new callouses until they are sore as he plucks through a notebook full of new compositions, gently and inexpertly, the strings complaining after so long left unattended. He's going to need to buy a new bow.</p><p>The notes are sour, the compositions lazy, the strings out of tune. He sounds dreadful.</p><p>It's also the first time he's played his violin in over a year.</p><p>He strums an out of tune minor third, plucking the two strings together with sore fingertips. It resonates just next to his ear, like the chime of a clock bell.</p><p>It's <em>awful.</em></p><p>But it's his.</p><p>When he strides to his feet again, he barely even has the patience to tuck his violin back into the case before sweeping all the way back to the bedroom with the biggest grin on his face that he can manage.</p><p>John is awake after all, a box of tissues under one arm and his laptop open in his blanket nest. He glances up at the swing of the door with bleary eyes, barely more than a lump underneath the sheets. "Oh," he starts, blinking. "Sherlock, can you--"</p><p>Sherlock kisses him as hard as he can, because fuck his scars, fuck the silence, and <em>fuck </em>the flu.</p><hr/><p>He gets the flu after all, too.</p><p>Sherlock spends the week with his head in John's lap, feverish, sick to his stomach, and utterly content<em>. </em>John strokes his hair and says, "I told you so,", but Sherlock gets a week-long couch cuddle out of it and as much tea as he likes, so who's the real winner, here?</p><p>"Too much sugar and milk," he whispers, the words swallowed up by his tea. The surface ripples and he swallows a minuscule mouthful. It's foul, but that's possibly just lingering the aftertaste of vomit. "Trying to force extra calories in when I can't keep anything else down? Sneaky, John. Sneaky."</p><p>John strides back into the bedroom a moment later, laptop charger in one hand and a freshly washed blanket over his shoulder. His brow furrows as he looks at Sherlock, budging the sweaty, filthy sheets back. "You okay? Thought I heard..."</p><p>Sherlock fakes a cough into his tea, and grins.</p><hr/><p>He practises speaking.</p><p>He still can't do it with John, yet. Or at crime scenes, or in Molly's morgue, or with clients at Baker Street. It's never anywhere that it actually matters. An address given to a cabbie, a greeting to the boy with the delivery Thai, asking a cashier for the cigarettes behind the counter. Short, brief interactions, ones that he can write a script for in his head, ironing out every syllable and contour past the point where it's anything but autopilot. It's the same strategy he'd employed as a child, away at boarding school, but now it's even easier; now he <em>knows </em>what he's supposed to say, and there's never anything there trapping him if he gets it wrong. Now it's just one sentence, one question, and now there is no choice; now he must <em>make himself </em>say it.</p><p>It's impossible and then it's only difficult and then it's easy, and then there's even more. It's no longer just one exchange, it's a <em>conversation. </em>He says something, they say something back, and he has to invent something to say in reply. He can't write a script for it any more; he has to be able to craft something to say right on the spot.</p><p>And it takes a little while, for him to stop freezing. But he <em>does.</em></p><p>It's probably the most pathetic accomplishment he's ever had in his life, but after he's spent so long trapped in his own silence, he's more than willing to take what he can get.</p><p>Sherlock can feel the words now, trapped and budding in his throat. They've turned into a parasitic fungus that has taken root, and one that needs to be excised if he doesn't want for it to spread to his lungs and heart and kill him. He's <em>close. </em>He can't deduce at a crime scene, but he can ask someone for a cigarette outside. He can't tell his cabbie to check the date, because he's forgotten his wife's birthday tonight, but he can tell him an address. He can't say anything to John, but he can talk to himself when John leaves in the morning. He can stand at the curtains and watch him walk to the subway, and he can whisper, <em>"Tomorrow."</em></p><p>Tomorrow is finally getting closer.</p><p>He practises speaking when John is not home the most. At first, it's to simply rehabilitate his own voice, coaxing it out of its hoarse ruin of croaked syllables and parched words into something serviceable again, in the hopes that his first deduction won't end in a coughing fit. But then when his voice starts gaining strength he keeps at it, because he can't stop. It's addictive and amazing, it makes him feel alive and like each word is its own little goldmine of a case or shot of cocaine, a little high with <em>each </em>and <em>every </em>word that he says. It feels <em>good.</em></p><p>Now that he's opened his mouth, he never wants to shut it again.</p><p>He plays violin to himself in the mornings, because that's another thing he can do, now. He can play violin. <em>Again.</em> He's been reluctant to play for John until he's rebuilt his callouses and fully restored the muscle memory, but the look on John's face whenever he <em>does </em>play is like all his Christmases have come at once, and... Sherlock can't exactly say no to that, can he? He lives for praise, and <em>that </em>look on John's face, that huge, euphoric, beaming smile, the adoration in his eyes, like Sherlock has just done something amazing or spectacular--</p><p>It breathes life into him every single time. It replaces a file of something toxic or cruel in his head, untwisting a nail from his chest and filling the space left with warmth instead. It's the same little hit of disbelieving joy every time John looks at him and says fantastic and <em>means it.</em></p><p>So he sounds dreadful, and he plays for John anyway, and every night, feels just a little bit lighter.</p><p>He's slaughtering a particularly difficult composition of his one morning, testing harmonies and chord progression, with John down at the surgery and London's criminal classes horribly well-behaved. Sherlock tests the theme out once and scowls, tucking his violin against his stomach as he goes for his pen instead. "Should be second position instead of third," he mutters, notating it down. Stupid, <em>stupid. </em>"Unless I want to change this passage entirely. Possibly should. Probably will, it's--"</p><p>"Oh, Sherlock!"</p><p>He starts around so suddenly he almost drops his violin.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson is standing right in the doorway to the flat, a bowl of biscuits in hand. Today isn't her baking day. They're from Mr. Chatterjee. They're from Mr. Chatterjee and he hadn't known it because he's been up here all day, but whenever Mr. Chatterjee brings her baked goods she always brings half the box up here to keep him and John fed. Mrs. Hudson is standing in his doorway with biscuits.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson is standing in his doorway with biscuits, and by the look on her face, she has heard absolutely every word.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson, he tries to say. The neck of his violin suddenly bites into the grip of his fist, his blood howling in his ears and his heartbeat underneath it. Mrs. Hudson. I--. Mrs. Hudson. Wait. Stop. Mrs. Hudson.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson stares at him with open glee, and there is apparently nothing at all Sherlock can do beyond open and shut his mouth like a strangled fish. Not even two seconds ago he was talking, and now the words are stuck all the way back down into his chest and won't come out.</p><p>The outright joy in Mrs. Hudson's eyes dims a little, when the silence just stretches on. The quiet expands in the flat, and Sherlock gapes at her uselessly and says <em>nothing. </em></p><p>The joy dims, but her smile does <em>not. </em>She looks at him, and it takes her not even a moment at all to cross the room and instantly pull him into a hug. "Oh, Sherlock," she says again, this time with a warm pat to his cheek that just about turns him inside out. "This is so wonderful! Oh, you'll see, dear; I <em>knew </em>you'd be just fine!" The biscuits and his violin are rattled against his side, shifted when she squeezes him in parting and gives him a kiss on the cheek instead. "Does John know?"</p><p>Sherlock does his best to frown, to frown severely and sternly and above all else, calmly. He does his best to <em>not </em>look like an idiot flailing, unable to speak. But the point of the matter he still keeps his mouth shut and doesn't even try, and that is his answer.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson tsks in quiet disapproval, shaking her head. But she smiles all the same, squeezing his hands just a bit like a proud mother. "Then I won't say anything," she promises, and holds a finger to her lips.</p><p>The unsaid implication, of course, was obvious.</p><p>She won't say anything, because Sherlock <em>will.</em></p><p>He keeps his mouth shut.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson moves away to continue her fussing, setting the bowl down and straightening up the kitchen and in general being his housekeeper. "Oh, this is so <em>exciting!" </em>she cries, looking a bit like she's about to hug him again, or perhaps even start to cry. "It's been so <em>quiet </em>around here, can you believe it, I've actually missed the racket you used to make up here? And John! John is going to be so <em>happy, </em>dear, you have no idea how worried that poor man has been about you--"</p><p>Yes. He does. That is precisely the issue.</p><p>Mrs. Hudson finishes her bustling, while Sherlock occupies himself with standing there mute like a mannequin. She talks enough for the both of them, deflating the dusty silence of the flat with her chatter alone, the pressure on Sherlock evaporating just like that.</p><p>This is his life. Mrs. Hudson gossiping about Mrs. Turner's cats, and livers on the kitchen table, and a case pending on his laptop, and his violin in hand. John at the surgery, coming home late tonight because of another meeting with his tutor. Perhaps they can meet at Angelo's instead. This, all of this, is his life. He is <em>still alive, </em>and so is John, and neither of them are going anywhere more than a crime scene.</p><p>Sod this. Sod this. <em>Sod this.</em></p><p>"Mrs. Hudson," he spits. She's one foot out the door, her back to him and one second away from disappearing off down the stairs entirely. But she's still there. She can still hear him. "More. Tea."</p><hr/><p>They do end up at Angelo's after all, though not that same night. John insists on waiting until Sherlock's temperature has been normal for twenty-four hours before agreeing to a night out in celebration, but when the night comes, it's no question. It's Angelo's. They've always gone there often, because Sherlock dislikes <em>new people </em>and <em>new places </em>and <em>new things, </em>and they go there even more frequently now. It's just simply easier, to have the owner already not be expectant of Sherlock to speak.</p><p>Also, he really likes the cake.</p><p>A more normal person might take John to a new restaurant. A fancier, more expensive restaurant, with even fancier and more expensive cake. Something with a French name and menu, so Sherlock could sweep John's menu from his hands, and then order for him, right there in front of him and in flawless French. Sherlock is not normal. He's also not that trite, overly cliched, or <em>boring. </em></p><p>Sherlock continues cultivating his words, and points to a line on the menu for Angelo instead.</p><p>However, there is another reason that they frequent Angelo's, and it is also the reason that they are here tonight: the location is <em>perfect </em>for a stakeout.</p><p>Assuming there aren't guns involved. Angelo does get a tad bit annoyed, when there are shoot-outs on the street outside his restaurant, but... other than that. Perfect.</p><p>Sherlock alternately works his fork through a slice of red velvet and plays with his pen, while John takes a very, very long time with a glass of wine. They still bring his legal pad along, because while John's competency has been improving, his vocabulary is still woefully inept for the level of things Sherlock wants to say. It's all right. He doesn't intend to need this safety net for all that much longer.</p><p>"They're sure taking an awful long time to show up, Sherlock." John frowns over Sherlock's shoulder and out the window, his finger scratching his restlessness into the napkin. "Are you sure they're coming tonight?"</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes, not bothering to deign <em>that </em>one with a response. <em>Is he sure. </em>Please.</p><p>John gives him another look, one that tries to be unamused but fails at it rather spectacularly. "And what are we supposed to do if they show up, anyway? Have Angelo invite them in for a free glass of wine?"</p><p>
  <em>If asked, he would. </em>
</p><p>"Some day, Sherlock?" John wags his own fork in his face, particularly bright-eyed and entertained. "You are going to wear out that poor man's patience. And then what'll we do? We won't be able to keep you fed with free cake from anyone but Mrs. Hudson!"</p><p>
  <em>He loves me!</em>
</p><p>"Yeah?" he prods, raising an eyebrow. "I love you, too, but you don't see me letting you invite criminals into my house for free. Oh, wait, that's exactly what I do. Why do I do that, again?"</p><p>
  <em>Because you love it.</em>
</p><p>"I do. God help me." He pauses a moment, his gaze lingering again out the window, and swipes a bite from Sherlock's plate. "I also don't mind the free cake, though."</p><p>They exchange a few more bites of cake, John's ability to understand what Sherlock signs degrading with each additional sip of wine. He makes up for it by tangling his free hand with Sherlock's, trapping it in a way that renders him more mute than he already is, but this time, he finds himself all right with it. It's even more of an incentive to drag himself the final few inches and unstick his throat.</p><p>Or he would, if their men of the hour hadn't chosen exactly then to make their appearance.</p><p>Sherlock tugs on John's hand to attract his attention, frowning out the window after them. It's a group of three men, idiots, as usual, though these are below average even for London's criminal classes, but they've lucked into a scheme that is far above their competency levels, and one that has been absolutely delighting Sherlock. He swallows another bite of cake, watching very, very carefully as they congregate on the street.</p><p><em>Change of plans, </em>he signs.<em> They're acting tonight. We need to stall them. Headless nun?</em></p><p>He writes the last two words, knowing John won't be able to translate the signs for them. Sherlock isn't sure he even knows them himself. But John is immediately upright all the same, joining him in searching out the window. He groans at the sight, but his smile glints with a hard edge of steel.</p><p>"It's a shame," John sighs, even as he summons Angelo. "I liked this shirt."</p><p>So does Sherlock. But, the Work requires sacrifices. There will always be more form-fitting purple shirts.</p><p>Angelo delivers John's requested glass of white wine, and from there follows the rest of John's instructions to squirrel back to the kitchen and call the police. Lestrade, specifically; this will not be the first time that Angelo has had to summon the police to a crime just outside his restaurant. And then, a noisy show of it is made, the both of them tossed out into the street with Sherlock's face and collar dripping with wine and John's hand squeezed around his, Angelo shouting for them to get lost while Sherlock is high on the euphoria of it. They look like nothing more than two drunks staggering together down the street.</p><p>It strikes Sherlock then, as they stumble down the pavement together, his arm fallen lazily around John's shoulders and John's wrapped in equal parts affection and fake drunk around his back. They trip over their own feet and John laughs into his shoulder, holding him close, and it may all be an act, but John is draped all over him right there in the middle of the street and all Sherlock can feel is how much John <em>loves </em>him.</p><p>He has never wanted anything in his life more than he wants this.</p><p>John staggers off his shoulder, right into the middle of their group of idiots. He gets pushed off from one moron to another and Sherlock staggers with him, and John makes up for Sherlock's silence with a loud grunt of his own, pinwheeled from one to the other. "Excuse--" he shouts, "<em>excuse me-</em>- did you just push me? Did you just <em>push me?"</em></p><p>Sherlock smirks to himself. John may not be the best actor in the world, but he does play a very convincing drunk.</p><p>"Get lost," one of the idiots grunts, trying to shrug John off him and into the street. John falls straight into Sherlock, sagging bonelessly into his arms, but when he presses his face into his neck it's so he can hide a smirk. Sherlock feels it against his skin, and Jesus Christ, this is <em>not fair, </em>is it? Sherlock wants to call the entire thing off, let John march him home, and properly shag his brains out for the first time in a year.</p><p>It really is a pity that the shirt is ruined.</p><p>Sherlock grins wryly at John, when the next shove is turned into John shouldering the second idiot straight off the pavement. <em>You look ridiculous, </em>he signs, and John grins back.</p><p>"My boyfriend," he starts, and for this one, he turns so he can get right into the idiot's face. "My boyfriend says that he thinks you're an idiot."</p><p>Well, he's not exactly wrong, is he?</p><p>"Oh, they're <em>boyfriends, </em>everyone," one says, to a round of distracted, disgruntled laughter. Sherlock finds himself propped up against the nearest streetlight, while John is again looking to be shoved into the street. "What a bunch of freaks."</p><p><em>Oh, </em>that was a mistake.</p><p>Sherlock leans back, as comfortable as a man can possibly get when using a cold streetlight for a crutch and with sticky wine still drying on his face. He settles himself in to watch the show, and for a truly bizarre moment, really wishes he had some popcorn to go along with it.</p><p>Because there is an infinite spectrum of the things that he loves the most about John Watson. But there is absolutely nothing comparable to the swell of pure glee that blossoms right in his stomach as he watches John swivel back around, pull himself up to his full height in defense of Sherlock's very non-existent honor, and throw the first punch.</p><hr/><p>It is well past midnight, when they finally manage to spill back into 221B.</p><p>The remains of his cake are tucked underneath one arm-- Angelo's insistence-- while the solid warmth of John is compact under the other. They barely manage to keep quiet for Mrs. Hudson's sake, John giggling while Sherlock laughs soundlessly, punch-drunk on the triumph of a case and a fist fight and a date all in one. "That was <em>ridiculous," </em>John stage-whispers, squeezing his arm around Sherlock's side. His smile is bright and brilliant in the dark. "Can we ever have a normal date, do you think? One that doesn't end in us getting thrown out of a restaurant or having to call the police?"</p><p><em>Doubtful. </em>His collar is stiff and sticky from where it's stuck to his neck, and he tugs it lose, grinning at John. <em>Do you want a normal date?</em></p><p>"Hell, no." John glances at him again, still just a little breathless. The look on his face is perfection incarnate. "Come here."</p><p>He pops one of the sticky buttons loose, his hands lingering near his neck. "It is a shame about the shirt," he murmurs, and he's still smiling and breathless and flushed. His hand slides to his sticky collarbone next. "You're an absolute lunatic, you know? Absolutely cracking mad."</p><p>It is four years, since the first time they had this conversation. Since they'd stood there at the foot of the stairs, catching their breath and laughing after a dinner interrupted by a case for the most ridiculous thing they have ever done. It's been four years, and the similarities stick to him like glue just the same as every single piece that is so excruciatingly different.</p><p>That night he had been the most remarkable, fantastic diva that John had ever met. Tonight he's had nightmares for three nights in a row, and John knows about every one. That night, John had moved in because all he'd wanted was a breath of fresh air, and Sherlock had given him a car chase through half of London. Tonight he's kissing John at the foot of the stairs because the cold makes his leg hurt if he stands for too long. That night, John had taken one look at him and stayed, because Sherlock was <em>perfect. </em>Tonight, Sherlock is draped over his shoulders and can't speak and has a weekly appointment with a therapist and John <em>knows all about it, </em>and he's still standing right here, his arms around him, and his mouth on his<em>.</em></p><p>Tonight, Sherlock has chronic pain and nightmares and can't speak and sees a therapist, and he has never been happier in his life. He is re-pieced together again, the puzzle pieces fit with the exacting, precise skill of a surgeon, and it is absolutely absurd, but this exact moment is one that he wants to preserve in the whole of the palace. To let it expand and overwrite every room until this is all that he is. He is <em>happy. </em></p><p>It is four years and now Sherlock is folded into John's arms, his shirt half unbuttoned and John just an inch away from kissing him.</p><p>John is still <em>here.</em></p><p>"Upstairs?" John murmurs, one hand slid between his sticky collar and his throat. The other curls possessively in Sherlock's hair, his strong fingers tugging him closer, close enough to feel the steady pattern of his heart.</p><p>Sherlock scratches a check mark into his neck, and John's grin fills him up from the inside out.</p><hr/><p>He's spent all this time, wanting the perfect moment. The perfect blog-post ending that will put an end to all of this, once and for all.</p><p><em>"I am Sherlock Holmes," </em>he whispers. It comes out as nothing more than a faint breath of air, landing gently on John's sweaty, still back. The words settle comfortably in his throat, not sticking like glue to keep him silent but instead flowing as they are meant to do. He chooses another. <em>"I love you."</em></p><p>John snuffles softly into his pillow.</p><p>And when has he <em>ever, </em>in his life, been a patient man?</p><p>He wants this back. He wants this <em>now.</em></p><p>Sherlock decides that he's done waiting.</p><hr/><p>The next morning, John's arms around him don't stir until his alarm goes off on his phone. Sherlock has half a mind to banish the phone and the noises it makes to the nearest beaker of acid, but John only groans into his shoulder, reaching all the way over him to turn it off.</p><p>"You smell like wine," John chuckles, his breath warm against his skin. His eyes are heavy with sleep, one only half-open at all, but so close and blue and soft Sherlock could drown in them<em>. </em>"Take a shower and maybe you can snag some of my breakfast before I leave for work."</p><p>Sherlock does not want breakfast, and he does not want a shower.</p><p>John kisses him once, right in the most wine-sticky shoulder. He runs his hand through Sherlock's hair, barely disguising a snicker at the rat's nest therein, and rolls onto his other side with his phone in one hand and a yawn in the other.</p><p>"Okay," he says.</p><p>John goes stock still.</p><p>One second. Two seconds. Three.</p><p>John turns, very slowly, back around. Every trace of his sleepy, early-morning affection is gone, and instead of a smile he now stares are Sherlock with such sudden intensity that the feeling moves inside him and robs the space from the anxiety that wants to grow.</p><p>"Did you just." He stops, swallowing wetly, and suddenly is back on the bed with Sherlock. "Was that--" And now the smile is back after all, small and tentative, dawning over him like he can barely believe it's true. But it is true. It <em>is. </em>"Say that again. Say it. Sherlock--"</p><p>And then it's suddenly too much, an expectation that hasn't been there in <em>months </em>that he's meant to meet, right here, right now, with John's fingers clasped around his and nothing in the space between them but bedsheets and Sherlock's own silence. It's pressure to perform and he hates himself but he tugs one hand free, his throat suddenly dry and his chest gone hollow.</p><p><em>Stop looking. </em>He squirms backwards on the sheets, looking away, to anywhere but at John. <em>I can't if you--</em></p><p>"No, no. No, you <em>can.</em> You just did! Sherlock--" John grabs both of his hands, pushing them down mid-sign to keep his fingers silent. His grin is bigger now and he encourages him again, the shock blossomed into sheer excitement but even more than that,<em> love.</em> "I'm not going to go away. Come on, Sherlock. You can do this! You know you can..."</p><p>John keeps it up, his fingers stroking along Sherlock's, holding them still every time he tries to sign something. The pressure still presses in all around him like a thick blanket but when he breathes next it's easier, because John is <em>still there. </em>John believes in him. John has just watched him strangle on his own tongue, fail in the very moment it mattered, and John<em> still </em>believes in him, John has <em>always </em>believed in him. And-- and John is <em>right. </em></p><p>Sherlock is tired of talking to himself in the mirror, he is tired of ordering coffee and buying cigarettes, and more than anything else he is<em> tired </em>of whispering to John from rooms away and in the middle of the night because he is so scared of this.</p><p>"Come on, it's okay." He's still gentling him, encouraging Sherlock ahead like he's a frightened animal. The hands around him are rock steady, guiding him step by step and ready to catch him if he still should fall. He's<em> safe.</em> "Just one word, love. It's all r--"</p><p>"Okay."</p><p>John freezes for the second time in as many minutes.</p><p>And--</p><p>Suddenly, the words are <em>there.</em></p><p>"I donotsmell like... do not. Smell like wine. That's you. But. I'llgladlytake- take a showww... shower. With you anyway. You look wonderful. This morning. Shouldget... shouldgetdrunk-- more oft--"</p><p>John throws himself at him with all the force of a very small, very determined bear.</p><p>Sherlock <em>whumps </em>hard onto his back, squeezed tightly all around and kissed hard on the mouth, John's hands suddenly on his face and hair. John is absolutely ecstatic and over the moon, kissing him all over his face now but Sherlock can't stop. He doesn't <em>want </em>to stop. "Thankyou. Stay home today. I love you. Your blog posttt was terrible. Seventypos. I did not walk into that fence, was <em>pushed. </em>I love you. You're an idiot. I should write all the posts fromnowon. I think I'd be very good. At it. People love me." John keeps kissing him and Sherlock really ought to be kissing back but every time he tries it's wrangled into words instead, stupid words that are sloppy and barely comprehensible, nonsense words, embarrassing flops that sound like he's drunk or drugged. "You loveme. Shhe... Sherlock Holmes. I am--"</p><p>"You <em>nutter," </em>John gasps, "you're a nutter, that's what you are." He cradles his face and hair and strokes his cheeks as if they're something indescribably precious, his voice shivering against Sherlock's skin. "You're not making any sense-- you've been practising, haven't you? This isn't the first time--"</p><p>And John's not making much sense, either, but Sherlock isn't a genius for nothing, and he grins back. "Yep." It feels like he's floating and he pulls John back down on top of him; the only words he wants to say now are ones into John's mouth. "Had to be sure."</p><p>"You <em>idiot." </em>John kisses him again, his smile imprinting warmth into Sherlock's skin, and when he reels back he's crying. He's <em>crying, </em>and he has never looked so happy. "Don't even know what that means; don't care. Oh-- my <em>god, </em>Sherlock--"</p><p>"Mmm." He grumbles back into John's mouth, tasting his lips and tongue and teeth. "I sound... likean idiot."</p><p>"I. Don't. <em>Care. </em>I do not care." John pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, forehead to his. "I don't care if you sound like a blithering idiot for the rest of our lives, I still want to hear it. Sherlock. <em>Sherlock." </em>He ducks his head closer again, still cradling his face. "Do you have <em>any idea </em>how amazing you are? Any idea, Sherlock?"</p><p><em>I love when you say my name. </em>It doesn't quite come out, the words still jumbled in his throat, but he's too high on his victory to care. He inhales John again, every <em>single </em>detail that there is, and John kisses him and kisses him like he's never going to let him up again. Sherlock is absolutely okay with this.</p><p>"Hmm," he sighs again. "Have dinner with me."</p><p>"Have dinner..." John does stop for a moment there. He pulls back just far enough to blink at him, and then his face transforms into another grin. "Is that a euphemism? Really? <em>Right now, </em>Sherlock?"</p><p>"Euphemism." He has <em>missed </em>four-syllable words. "Euph-e-mi-sm. <em>Euphemism. </em>Yes. John." Sherlock breathes in again, and John drops a hand from his face to squeeze his arm around him instead. Oh, <em>god. </em>"John. It is mandatory that we. Commence. In copulation. Posssst haste, likeproper-" No. <em>No. </em></p><p>Sherlock closes his eyes, forcibly piecing the sentence together in his head, sticking each syllable together and spelling them out under his tongue. John waits above him, still holding his hands, and when the stupid words aren't laughed at it's like another piece is coming unstuck in the dam in his throat. He inhales and he can <em>breathe.</em></p><p>He looks back up at John, and he starts again.</p><p>"It is mandatory that we commence in copulation post haste, like proper degenerates, so we may relish in debauchery."</p><p>John blinks.</p><p>Sherlock grins back, letting himself drop back to the bed and John's arms. "I like four syllable words," he breathes, which is quite possibly the most pointless, stupid, and non-romantic statement anybody has ever said, <em>ever, </em>excepting perhaps his statement just before it. But he doesn't care. He does not care.</p><p>It's like his words have made something in John click. His smile shifts, turning tender and he looks down at Sherlock with so much affection and love it feels like he's drowning. What a way to go that would be. Another warm swell of laughter spills out from his throat and he drops back down, hugging Sherlock to him, and dear <em>god, </em>it's enough.</p><p>It's not at all a perfect blog-post-worthy ending. Sherlock's shirt is alternatively wrinkled and sticky, plastered to his skin, and they both look dreadful with bedhead and sleep clinging to John's eyes at seven thirty in the morning. He keeps stumbling over his own words and John landed half on the floor when he tackled him down and is still there, and it is his first words <em>in a year </em>and they are clumsy, ineloquent, and as lacking in dramatic flair as is possible. Precisely no part of this morning has gone as it was supposed to.</p><p>"I like how four syllable words sound in your voice," John laughs, curling his hands into his hair. He lies still for a second, stroking his hair, forehead to his chest, holding him close. "I<em> love </em>your voice. I love you."</p><p>"Yes," Sherlock breathes. That's not what he's supposed to say, but it comes out, anyway. <em>I love you, </em>John says. And he feels it. By god, he feels <em>loved.</em></p><p>"I've missed you," John says. He strokes his his hands around him in tight, suffocating hug. "I've missed you. A lot."</p><p>"Yes," Sherlock says again, dazed.</p><p>John kisses him again, pressing his face to the hollow of his throat, and the very, very end of a scar. He kisses him and kisses him until Sherlock all but comes off the bed, filled with buoyant joy and satisfaction, because John <em>loves him, </em>John is <em>proud of him.</em> "You... <em>remarkable </em>man. There. Four syllables." He strokes his hair and his back and his shoulders, his legs locking around Sherlock's, his hands into his. "I'll look up more. I will buy a dictionary and look up every four-syllable compliment that there is in the English language and I'll write a blog post consisting of only that. Sherlock. I love you. You're... <em>incredible."</em></p><p>Sherlock arcs under his hands, glowing with pleasure and pride. He could say something else, something about how he's positive google will suffice, or how that sounds like a very ungrammatical blog post in the making, and he knows John can do better than <em>that</em>. He doesn't want to. The words are full and eager and <em>there </em>inside him but in just this exact moment that he has right now, he doesn't need to say anything at all.</p><p>This is enough.</p><p>This, with John's arms around him, and the heat of his kiss still lingering on his throat, and the look on his face quite possibly the happiest thing that Sherlock will ever see in his entire life, is enough.</p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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  <a href="https://the-original-akarri.tumblr.com/">Artist: Akarri</a>
</p><p> </p><p>All feedback is welcome and appreciated-- I hope this final chapter managed to live up to expectations!!! Thank you all SO, SO MUCH for reading along the way, and stay healthy! &lt;3</p><p>My next trick (aside from a few assorted oneshots in my doc, including the Potterlock one) is a somewhat messy fic I'll dub Mutually Unrequited Pining: Fuck TLD, The Fix-It. It is an absolute wreck for everyone, and definitely not one I want to risk leaving hanging, so I'll try to complete it before I start posting. If this fic was a feels-good sort of fic, then that one is a feel-bad one until the end, so... stay tuned :)</p><p>  <a href="https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/">Come say hi on tumblr!</a></p>
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